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Chapter 36: Servitude
The thought was a tombstone, carved into the fabric of his mind: Was this the statue of the Angel of Miracles?
It was not a question that flitted through his consciousness, but one that lodged there, permanent and suffocating, cemented with a fear so profound it bordered on existential dread. He could feel the terror on a physiological level, a cascading system failure. His breath hitched, not in simple gasps, but in ragged, insufficient pulls of air that failed to fill his lungs. His heart was a wild, frantic drum against his ribs, a frantic staccato that threatened to shatter his sternum. His blood pressure felt like a geyser building behind his eyes, a pounding, over-palpitating rhythm that throbbed in his temples and the base of his neck, turning his vision into a pulsating, blood-rushed haze.
Then came the cold. A searing, metaphysical cold that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the chill of the void, sharp and unforgiving, as something intangible yet impossibly solid clasped around his torso, his arms, his legs. He gasped, his frantic breathing hitching as he gazed down. Great, abysmal chains, forged from what seemed like solidified night, were coiled tightly around his body, pinning him on his knees to the unyielding ground. They pulsed with a sickly, viridescent energy, a rhythm that perfectly matched the slow, hypnotic dance of the auroras in the sky above. The chains did not just bind him; they pressed down on him, a colossal weight forcing his posture into one of reverence before the towering statue. It was an imposition, a declaration that this entity was the law of this very realm, and his defiance was a transgression it was designed to correct.
His consciousness was being forcefully suppressed. The chains felt like they were sinking into his soul, not just his flesh. What he perceived as reality began to warp and distort. The edges of the world bled into one another; the obsidian sea, the emerald sky, the pale statue – all began to lose their defined borders, smearing into a nauseating watercolor of dread. His thoughts, once a storm of panic and questions, were being funneled, narrowed, and compressed towards a single, glorious, and terrifying conclusion: Reverence.
"Goddamn it," he snarled through gritted teeth, the words a raw scrape in his throat. Every ounce of strength he had, every shred of will that remained, he poured into resisting this mental subjugation, into fighting the physical binding of these chains. He gritted his jaw so hard he tasted the coppery tang of blood where his teeth bit into the soft flesh of his lip. With a guttural roar that tore from the depths of his being, he yanked against the chains. The muscles in his arms, back, and shoulders corded and screamed in protest, straining against the unyielding metal. He threw his weight back, heaving, his entire body a single, taut nerve of rebellion. But the chains did not groan; they did not shift a millimeter. They absorbed his struggle with an infinite, disdainful patience.
Why wouldn't they budge? Was he that helpless? That pathetic? To be chained down like a beast, utterly powerless, in front of a goddamn piece of carved stone, no matter how terrifying? The humiliation was a poison sharper than any blade. Why? Why?! He screamed the question internally, the soundless shriek echoing in the prison of his own skull. So much for his grand dreams of freedom, only to be bounded by chains in some forgotten, god-forsaken realm. He was a joke, and the universe was the cruel comedian.
His anger, hot and futile, turned his gaze back to the statue. What was its deal? His eyes, burning with unshed tears of frustration, swept from below, starting at its feet – impossibly large, rooted to the dais as if they had grown from it. His gaze traveled up, over the folds of a robe that seemed less carved and more like captured, flowing stone. Further up, past the slender, androgynous torso, to where its arms were spread wide. In one outstretched hand, it held a set of scales, ancient and perfectly balanced,what it weighed simply was beyond his understanding... In its other palm, a miniature tree flourished, its roots coiled around the stone fingers, its canopy shimmering with an enchanting white mist that swirled with a life of its own. Around each of its arms, a glowing halo rotated slowly, adding to the aura of impossible, divine power,far greater than the Sun itself
..And the moment his eyes, driven by a desperate, rebellious need, tried to wander above its collarbone, towards the neck and the face…
It was like a physical, psychic blow. His entire consciousness was slammed downwards, a force so absolute it felt like he had been un-made and hastily re-assembled in a subservient posture. It was not a choice; it was a primal, instinctual imperative. To look further was insanity. It was unmaking. It was staring into the heart of a supernova and expecting to survive. He was not risking death; he was risking the total erasure of his very being. And in that moment of pure, animal terror, he obeyed. His head bowed, his chin nearly touching his chest, in forced reverence. He wanted none of that oblivion.
Cold sweat poured from his pores, beading on his skin before rolling off in a cool, gentle descent. The droplets fell towards the surface of the black sea, and without so much as a ripple, they were absorbed, dissolved into the nothingness, as if they had never been. He dared to look into the mirror-like surface, and all he saw was a pathetic victim of martyrdom. Chained. Bounded by crimes he knew nothing about, loaded with burdens far greater than any one man should ever carry. That was all that stared back. Not the man who had fought his damn ass off against the walking corpses, not the normal one who had simply tried to live his life, not the ambitious fool who had dared to desire freedom. No, not any of them. Right now, all he saw was a delusioned slave. And that truth stabbed him deeper than any physical blade could. His eyes burned, a hot, painful pressure building behind them. What the hell had he done to deserve all this? The pressure intensified, his vision blurring. What was the deal with the Angel of Miracles and the goddamn tree? Why him? Why?!
The internal scream was a silent, tearing thing inside him. The tears, no longer containable, threatened to spill over, scalding tracks of pure, helpless anguish ready to carve their way down his cheeks.
Then, a shift. From a distance, the glowing soul-orbs – his soul-orbs – approached. They moved soundlessly, weaving through the heavy air to whirl around him in a gentle, orbiting dance. As they passed around his body, he felt an odd sensation, a faint, psychic impression of comfort, as if multiple, gentle hands were resting on his shoulders, his back. It was alien, yet profoundly soothing. It was the feeling of not being alone in the abyss. Was this his power? The power of the soul? A weak, trembling smile curled on his lips, a fragile defiance against the despair.
Guess he wasn't entirely alone. His imaginary friends, his fragments, his whatever-they-were, were here. Their silent, empathic comfort was a balm. It wasn't all futile. This feeling, this tranquility that suddenly settled over his ravaged thoughts, wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
His moment of fragile peace was shattered by a voice. It boomed from the dark sky, from the very auroras themselves, a sound that for the first time caused a visible reaction in this stagnant realm – not a wave, but a series of subtle, concentric ripples that spread across the black sea. The voice was thunderous, layered with the sound of a thousand voices speaking in unison, and it carried the unassailable authority of fundamental law. Each word was a physical weight pressing down on him, and he felt his eardrums strain, teetering on the brink of obliteration. How could something be so calm and so destructively powerful at the same time? Yet, instead of pure fear, a morbid curiosity crept in. The statue was speaking. He hadn't been able to grasp its first, distorted words, but now, driven by that same absurd curiosity, he risked a glance upwards. His sight crept from the ground, over the statue's feet, up the flowing stone robes towards the torso, seeking the source.
The voice ordered again, and this time its majesty was undeniable. The air around him revolted, thickening with power. His eardrums screamed in fresh agony, yet now the words were clear, seared into his mind.
"Do not peer into the Eyes of the Divine, O' Nameless One… For thou Risk the Corruption of the Entirety of the Mortal Realms."
The words pierced his skull like a lance of pure, horrifying realization. Not just his corruption. The entirety of the mortal realms. Just how powerful was this so-called Divine Angel? And if this was merely a statue, how had he attracted its attention? Why had Mother Luck chosen this moment to abandon him so completely? Those words were enough to force his head down again, the weight of potential genocide a far more effective chain than the physical ones. This was true weakness. This was true patheticness. But he couldn't fight the feeling any longer. He had to ask. Why? Why him?
"Why…" he whispered, the word a dry crackle. Then, with more force, it escaped him, a vocalization of his inner resistance, "Glorious Statue, am I bounded here? Why me? Tell me, what am I?"
The questions fled his lips before his sense of self-preservation could restrain them. His inner self had won. He had voiced his defiance, risking his own existence and, according to the voice, who knew what else. How selfish, he muttered inwardly. Yet, deep within the storm of his fear, he felt a small, hard kernel of elation. This was better. Better to be shattered for asking than to be shackled for eternity without a question. Bring what may. After all, what did he have left to lose?.He had nothing to lose..yet from beneath his subconscious..memories of Tiffany her indifferent stare . annoying teases and Titles..the goodbye she had told him by the door side..the concerned wrinkled face of Old Matt..but instantly he snuffed them out..they were nothing but mere deviation in a life now miles away..he shuddered shutting his eyes..he had nothing to lose...Nothing.
Then came the thunderous reply. The voice bellowed once more, but this time, there was a new tone woven into its cosmic authority – a faint, almost imperceptible thread of humor, or perhaps, a sliver of respect.
"Interesting," the thousand voices resonated, shaking the very air. "I have bounded your soul within these great chains, suppressed your consciousness before my glorious presence, yet still your will persists. You really are Boundless, O' Pawn of the Divine."
The words struck him with the force of another hot lance, this one not of fear, but of devastating revelation.
Pawn.
The single word echoed in the sudden, silent void of his mind, dwarfing all other terror, all other pain.
Was he a Pawn?...