Ch. 8: Crossroads of Ash & Stone

Dearest Geppetto,

It seems the pain has consumed me. My heart is hollow—for you were, and will always be, my curse. My salvation.
Geppetto, please wait for me, for I have sinned. I have sinned so deeply these past days. Waiting.

I’ve let the pain your death caused—seeing you enshrined in statue glorification—allow rage to take hold.
It’s the only thing that fills me. It must fill me—or I couldn’t live with myself.

Geppetto, wait for me. I haven’t much time left—they know me.
I’ve done something terrible, but it was in your wake—in my martyr’s dream.

I sewed red.

I’m sorry—Iverelle perished by my warrior hand.
You refused to be a martyr of lies; you chose to be a martyr of truth.
I cannot accept it…
If they had believed, if they had trusted, if they hadn’t banished you—
I could have cared for you. I could have healed you.

Please forgive me—it’s already done.
I’ve crucified them. I’ve killed them. I’ve made them repent.
And now I wait for your other visions to come to fruition,
Because I believed in you.

Rest forever in peace,
Vaeloria.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

The dream carnival fades into fog.

Black and white colors—once vivid—dissolve as the sun returns. Golden rays pierce the mist, brushing the ground in slow, searching beams.

The light helps us find the exit.

But it can’t help her.

The girl who wandered too far, who gave herself to the illusion. Maybe… the Morrowmire was her metamorphosis. Not into something beautiful, but into guilt itself.

Yet what catches my eye isn’t the fog. It’s Emnu.

The fox.

His ears twitch. His tail hangs low. The guilt… it shows in the light.

“Hey, Emnu?” I ask. “You’ve seemed down lately.”

He smiles faintly. A soft, broken smile.

“Hey, mister,” he says. “The exit’s not so far, you know…”

But then—he bites his lip. Hesitates.

“Mister… I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

He lifts his head. The fog swims around us like a dream refusing to end.

“The Morrowmire isn’t terrifying because of the Lustrae fireflies,” he says. “It’s time. That’s what breaks people.”

“The illusions dig in so deep… you forget what hunger feels like. You forget days. You think you’re alive, but really…”

He trails off.

Then jumps down from the rock beside me.

“Everyone around us, mister—did you notice? They all died of starvation. They thought they weren’t hungry. It didn’t make sense to them.”

He stares right at me.

“I’ve been keeping you fed… with my presence. I’ve been feeding you. That’s why you’re still alive.”

My mouth parts slightly. I feel cold.

“Emnu, let’s keep walking. If what you’re saying is—”

He screams.

“No! Why don’t you get it?!”

Tears roll down his cheeks. His voice shakes.

“We’re going to stay here forever. You’ll keep me company. That’s all I want.”

He chuckles, but it’s empty.

“These corpses… they get boring after a while.”

And I understand.

To run would be death. This fog—it clogs the mind faster than fear. And I can’t leave him.

He wipes his tears, gently now.

“I’ll protect you, Mister Cain.”

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Then—

Smoke.

A burning smell. But I can’t tell what’s on fire.

The fog thickens again.

“Look at me,” Emnu says. His voice is shaking. “I’m real.”

His eyes don’t blink. They don’t leave mine.

“That must’ve been someone’s wish you just saw. A memory trying to be born. But mine… mine is simple.”

“Just follow me back into the swamp.”

Because I know—what he really wants.

He just doesn’t want to be alone.

“Mister” isn’t just a name. It’s a placeholder for a friend.

And then—through the mist—

A man appears.

Chained but mobile through his legs–

A wooden frame strapped to his back like a cross. Like a marionette with strings.

His eyes flick to Emnu, then to me.

“…Oh hell. A Kitsune. Divine blood,” he shouts in despair. This random man, tortured. You must–help me. ”

But Emnu is too focused on me. He doesn’t see the man lunge.

And so—

I move.

Without thought, without programming.

I push the man aside. He tumbles, crashing into the swamp behind us—swallowed by his own illusions.

Emnu stares at me.

And he cries.

I speak.

“No… this is real.”

“One day, I’ll fade away. But the one standing next to me won’t be a copy, or a function. It’ll be me. The real me.”

“And you, Emnu… maybe you’ll be real too.”

He trembles.

“I…”

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Later—

He curls up in the moss. And his flame—his personality—it flickers. Cold.

I reach out my hand.

And whisper,

“Hey, Emnu…

Tell me about your life.

Tell me about your friends. Your family. The future you dreamed of.”

“Tell me about the poachers you fought off. The pain you endured.”

“Tell me, Emnu… how’d you die all alone?”

He doesn’t speak.

So I raise my voice.

“Hey, Emnu…

Lift your head.

Look past the forest of delusions. Look at me.”

“Because if I could have a guide as genuine as you…”

“If you could have someone who’d protect you…”

“Then…”

“Hey, Emnu—let’s protect each other.”

His curled body shifts.

He breathes in.

Then he whispers:

“…Hey, mister.”

“…Promise?”

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Maybe one day this will fade away–but for these few seconds, we walk together.

Each step, defying Emnu’s self-rules. Above the Nokravis circle an area ahead, but for now. I believe them to try to calm Emnu. Signifying change.

Each step, his teeth show. He’s uncomfortable.

But I comforted him. We’re different species, but in the end–we’re all scripted here.

Does that mean legacy is everything…

Forgive me. For my past sins. But don’t touch my future ones… don’t manipulate them.

My happiness. My anger. My sadness.

Don’t label them as evil, as good.

I come to my conclusion–

I won’t force others to repent.

Judge them–tell them it’s all right. Because in the end, perfection is a sin.

However,

The environment turns a red hue.

Each step, the dirt becomes muddier.

The blood puddles herald terror.

More of the men, women…

children with crosses.

I remember my failure–

The boy. The girl. Should I add these to the numbers?

To the masses I hurt by doing nothing.

I can’t accept it–

Not to protect my legacy to the audience, but to be me.

It’s too fast for Emnu–his baby-steps, can’t cross the border of the Morrowmire fast enough.

That same border others fear to cross, he fears to leave it.

I can only repeat what I said,

“Hey Emnu–
Trust me. I will protect you.”

It gives him the sense of confidence to keep walking.

But it’s not fast enough to save them.

“Emnu–
I’m right here.”

Faster.
Faster.
Faster.

Hidden behind the screams.

Step.
Step.
Step.

A bridge is all that borders us from a burning town.

I look at Emnu.
He looks at me.

But he goes even faster.

Maybe it’s his personality–but for a second he seems to enjoy it. To let it die.

He crosses the bridge.

He stops.

Another man with a wooden cross–almost zombie-like–tries falling on him.

But I’m fast enough to stop it.

Here, we’re holding each other. But Emnu starts crumbling–he’s crying. He looks at me, and speaks:

“The last time–I left the Morrowmire…”

“My brother, his name…”

“I can’t remember it. It’s been too long.”

“But here, he died.”

I look around, statues of young, to old. All signifying death. The Nokravis circle above, crying a melody. Houses burning. And crucified statues, some not statues yet.

Then–

A lonely child walking with a wooden cross on his back, it reminds me of the child in Geppetto’s house. He speaks.

“The lady, she waits for you…”

“I herald death.”

There he turns to statue form, even his tears.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

All this death, around us–

It’s too much for Emnu…

He blanks out. I used the rope from earlier to wrap his body like a child on my metal back.

And suddenly–

I’m walking up the hill. To the bitter end–

And finally, I understand what repent means.

Vireth–

For those who read my novel…

I will fight for you.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

I hold the boy's shoulder, then push off of it.

Pulling myself up the hill that the town rests on–avoiding the crosses.

Protecting Emnu on my back as well.

Finally, before me.

She sits.

Rocking back on forth, a simple rocking chair. Behind her–

Rope that burns, confetti of ash. Statues stuck crawling toward her, begging. And the fire that backdrops her baroque outfit.

It’s a white dress. Hidden beneath belts, that compress a black leather-like outerwear. Black buttons. Leather-like pants. And a leather tricorn hat that hides her face full of tears. She speaks.

“You know–
Geppetto heralded your arrival. Even the exact date, time. And so I waited with my empty soul. I wasn’t supposed to lash out–but with nothing in my soul. I filled it with rage. So tell me, are you here to repent?”

“Have you ever… killed?”

“Hunted down families, dressed akin? Treason to those who cared.”

She pulls forward her frame,

“I am empty without rage. Without Geppetto.”

I ask a question.

“How do you know Geppetto, how do you know what happened?”

“My name is Vaeloria, warrior of shapeshifting.
A cursed bloodline—the Vaersyx. Perfect for spies,
scorned and ranked third in the hierarchy of prejudice.
But that means little to me.

What matters is how they treated Geppetto—
the banishment, the slander.
They called him a lunatic, a madman.
I saw only kindness.
But their hatred twisted his truth—
a deception so deep, it made no sense to hate him so fiercely.
Yet… he’s dead.”

She points at me.

“I listened to every word he spoke.
And my repentance—my oath—is to believe it all.
I avoided the Morrowmire by tunnels underground,
hidden paths you wouldn’t know.
You would have been killed like Geppetto—your strange shape, your otherness. Death.

But first—I rebelled against the town that killed him.”

“Iverelle.”

[End of Chapter]