Heart of Darkness

Chapter 48

 

            The door closed behind him and Zelgadis found himself standing in the middle of a perfectly normal street. People walked past, smiling a good afternoon to him, blissfully unaware of the frantic and furious emotions warring in the man who had left the innocuous cabin. Reality buffeted at him, in direct contrast to the obscenely surrealistic events that had just transpired, and he stepped backwards, bumping into the door with a thud. Nearly in a panic, Zelgadis grabbed the handle, yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him, once more back inside the cabin.

            Jedah was gone.

            That didn’t truly surprise Zelgadis. In fact, he had a hollow sort of feeling that nothing would ever surprise him again. He still didn’t know what he was, but now knew what he wasn’t. He wasn’t Hellmaster, no, that was Jedah.

            A flash of memory: a younger Jedah sitting outside a cabin with him, laughing at him while he fought with a tangled fishing line. Jedah snorting milk through his nose one of the rare few times Zelgadis had managed to sneak up on him. A food fight that had landed the both of them in the lake, each trying to mock-drown the other until an exhausted truce had them both panting on the grass.

            Lies, all of them.

            Power built, and Zelgadis cast himself out into the world, traveling to the place where it had all begun: the ruins of Ambervale.

 

            He appeared in the deserted street, dust flaring out and away from him as his boots touched ground. It was with new eyes that he saw with, a new understanding. Ambervale had been a half day’s walk from Rezo’s tower. The town where he had bought the daggers, the poisons… it had been Ambervale.

            The cave where he had hidden himself away… that was to the south, on the other side of the town, putting Ambervale directly between himself and the tower of the Red Priest. He knew where he was now, knew it as keenly as if it had been yesterday when he’d stood and bought the poison.

            Or was it? Was that a lie as well? Had he tried to kill himself? Or was that all a part of the concocted memories? The only way to know was to go to the cave, to look for himself and see if what he thought was left behind was still there.

 

            He walked there, preferring the physical motion, the solid sense of reality that it provided. When he got to it, there were signs of a cave-in, but that mattered little to him. He simply stepped through the rock as if it wasn’t there.

            The air within was stale, dry and devoid of anything that hinted at movement. It was old air, smelling of forgotten time and lost memories. But it was there, yes. The collection of knives he had purchased, shattered blades in a dusty pile near the discarded and broken knives. He’d been here, had tried to cut his stone skin with them. He recalled how useless they’d been, and impulsively, grabbed a half-broken dagger up from the floor of the cave and jabbed it into his lower left arm.

            Pain exploded, white-hot and real, undeniable and breathtaking. He hadn’t expected it, and he felt the blood welling, felt the dagger in the muscle. He fell to his knees, gasping, queasy with pain, yanking the filthy ruined blade from his arm. Nausea ripped through him and he retched, the acrid scent of his blood sharp in the dead air. He was immortal. (Damn that hurt!) He was Mazoku. (Tell that to his arm!)

            He retched again, sick at the thought of what he had done, sick at the scent and the pain and the strange feeling of bugs on his skin. They were crawling all over his left arm, and he clasped his right hand over the injury, trying to protect himself from the bugs. He had to get out… he had to get out of the cave… he couldn’t think to refocus his location, he couldn’t call the magic… the bugs were crawling all over his arm…

            He was standing by the lake, gasping in the sweet air, clutching his left arm with his right. Water… wash away the bugs, clean out the wound… he walked to the water’s edge, kneeling and putting out his left arm, yanking up the sleeve.

 

            There were no bugs.

 

            There was no wound.

 

            Frowning, Zelgadis yanked down his sleeve. His blood chilled as the inch-long slash showed pink skin underneath, the fabric cut by the dagger’s fractured blade. He’d stabbed himself and he had healed. That hadn’t been bugs; it had been the feeling of his own flesh knitting itself back together.

            He retched again, falling to his knees as his stomach rebelled against what he was discovering. As much as it fascinated him, he couldn’t stand the feelings associated, couldn’t… he was making himself sick just thinking of it.

            Calm… he had to calm himself. There was truth to his memories, a little here and there that hadn’t been a lie. In a way, that comforted and yet concerned. He knelt there, looking out over the lake, gaze cast towards the ruins of Rezo’s tower. The places of his youth, lost in ruin. His past was here, so much rubble and dust. The hollow, empty feeling crept back into him, and he looked at the rippling water, wondering if there was some deeper meaning from this.

            Couldn’t he simply choose to be whatever he wanted? He didn’t have to be Man or Mazoku. He could be both, and yet neither. He didn’t have to visit ruin on the world, didn’t have to live an ordinary life. He could find a middle ground and just simply be.

            It wouldn’t be easy, but with Lina by his side, anything was possible.

            Lina.

            His shining light.

            The thought of her gave him strength and he rose to his feet, preparing to find her and tell her what he knew.

 

            Zelgadis, I need you here. Lina and Xellos are dying and I can’t save them both.