Ashes to Ashes Pt. 04

Leather is heavy. It's an odd thing to notice, the weight of my clothes, but I do. The coat never had weight to it. Most of its presence was holes and gaps. But the cloak I am wearing, the mask crushing my nose, that is all so heavy and dense. The scent of my own breath keeps slipping behind my eyes. I don't know if I could do this in the desert proper. The canyon walls are already hell. There simply isn't a level beyond that where people, things, thoughts can survive. I almost went down with my simple cloth and glass. The collective Soren doesn't mind. I don't think they can mind.

"Stay in step," the one behind me hisses. I want to hiss back. It would establish the proper order, but I refrain. I am a Soren now, not a Jill. A Soren stays in step and does not hiss back when told to fall in line. A Soren just falls in line.

In my defense, everyone else here is taller than me. That makes it somewhat difficult to keep up with the long strides and the easy motions that all carry so effortlessly. I hate them. Or I hate me. We are all Soren, so hatred against the other is the hatred of the self. That's okay, really. I have enough hatred for them all, and the packs we are all supposed to carry.

They hung on to most of their gold. It was mostly iron and steel they traded at Fingertree Fort. And now the good people who do not have to wear thick leather masks will make tools and blades and all the great things and tools that a community needs. So many rusted things to mend and fix and make better. Sweat and blood pooling and pouring over the forge. I need to look into getting a blade. I don't need it, but it would look good. Something to go across my back. Or a hammer if I want to get medieval. Hammers are nice.

I am hot and thoughts cannot keep to a single rail. I am out of step, but I force it back down the avenue of march. I do not get a hissed word of frustration. I am proud. Too proud for something my age, but proud, nonetheless. I march and walk and keep time with my collective Soren posse. There is the urge to tug at the mask and let it fall from my face so I can breathe freely again, but that would be insane. I am a Soren and Sorens do not take off their masks.

The line's tempo slows as we all climb the canyon's wall. There is a path here, by some definition of the word. It is straight and narrow and steep as we ascend. And it is hot. I am sweating and gross and I feel the leather runoff stain my skin. I am finally tan. I hope Ike and Nia like it. I would like it if they turned pale. Mostly because I would find it hilarious.

Once we reach the final lip, the line stops and breathes. We all take a moment, a long moment to look at the world and how it is. Red, it is all red. The rock is red. The sky is red. My jacket is still red, although the sun has beaten out some of the color out of it. That's terrible. I need more red things to rub into it and then it will be alright. I take my hands to my knees and sigh. I still can't breathe. I should be able to breathe. But the mask is in the way. The collective Soren have taken their positions of rest against the evening sky and I am free to do the same.

Sweat pours down my forehead as I rip it off, gulping fresh air again. I wipe my brow, but it is all still there. It does not help. I am sticky and sweaty and I reek of old leather.

"Put your mask back on," says the same Soren that wants me to march in time. They get a finger, my favorite one, to be precise, in return.

"How do you guys even breathe in these things," I pant.

"Very easily. Now, back on it goes."

It's a she. I think it's a she. It's small enough to be a she, and the leather doesn't do her stature any favors. More than anything though, she just seems young. I can almost make out the pout and the glare through the leather. And the indignation does a very good job of convincing me to do as I'm told. But that would also defeat the purpose of being me. So, like a respectable adult, I stick out my tongue and let her carry on with whatever tasks the collective Soren decides should be done. She gets to clear the sight for the nightly fire, it seems. Good for her. It's an important task.

I look up to the red sky and let the heat of the dying day try to wash out of me. It won't. The stones have it too, and their immense weight takes precedent over my darting presence. I turn my attention to the mountains. So many of them, so jagged and sharp. They are the jaws of the world, top and bottom. There is another set on the other side, just as sharp, just as steep, just as impossibly looming. We are all in the jaws. We are all in the hungry mouth of the world and for once in my life, I seem small. I don't like it. I don't like feeling small. I instead turn and see if the Sorens need any help setting up tents. I am taller than some of the tents. And that's all I need to feel at the moment. Doesn't help that most of the other hulking things of beaten leather are giant. Too many tall things I the world. There needs to be less of them.

I don't know where they come up with fuel for their fire, but a small disc lies in the center of a clear ring of stones. A Soren looks to me and gestures. They all step back as I step up and snap breaks the air. In no time at all, the disc has grown and a wide blue flame has started lapping at the stars.

"Put your mask on," says the Soren that has appointed herself my nanny.

"Aren't we about to eat? I can take the mask off if I'm eating," I sigh.

She huffs and stares at me. But I relent. It's not worth the hassle and she is right. I am a Soren, however temporarily, and Sorens have rules about how Sorens act. I cannot be a Jill and a Soren at the same time. So, a Soren I am. Doesn't make the breath sting any less, though. It will burn just like the rest.

Every one of the Sorens has their little role to play and they all do it well. While the fire still grows and turns to orange red, others set the tent. Others look to start the meal. About a dozen, a baker's with me in tow, all arranged and stacked perfectly to do the job as it is needed to be done. I just sit and watch the flames. I am a Soren and a Jill and I still can't breathe properly.

Another Soren pulls the rations and I don't care what it is tonight. I am back to the mountains, always scanning, always looking. There is nothing, nothing at all in the stone face. No gaps, no spires, no grand tower to the heavens. It's all the mountains. They dominate and control every single thing that the skyline offers. Just jagged tooths of rock and ice and snow. I don't like them. My handler approaches and joins me as I sit at the canyon's lip and glare at the rock.

"You're really bad at being a Soren," she says.

"You're not wrong. I think it's because I'm not," I say.

"You have to let go. That's the main thing. You just let go. That little bit of your mind that says you're you is lying and then you are one. With everything. You're a finger."

"How old are you?"

"I have no age. I am a continuation of an organism older than time that will persist until infinity. A limb may die, but a new one will replace it. The whole is complete and unchanging."

"I'm guessing 14."

"15," she huffs. I smirk and lie back on the warmed stone.

"Relax," I say, "I'm not here to join you. For long anyway. I'm not going to be a Soren after you get to the holdout. I plan to do some bad things and I'm using your mask to do them. Just put up with a sinner for a while and you'll never have to think about me ever again."

She is not placated, but I don't mind. She can sit there and try to shame me and force me into the admittedly effective collective. It's not that I mind them, or even hate them. If anything, they're one of the better ways of living I've seen. But I'm not that. Besides, she now has a mission. I am a heathen that needs conversion, so she will sit there and tell me that I'm a bad person as much as she wants. My little shadow is right, anyway. I am a bad person.

"Why'd you join up?" I ask.

"I was always a part of the collective," she says.

"No more philosophy. I'm taking to reality now."

"No, really. I was always a Soren. I will always be a Soren. My mom was a Soren. My dad was a Soren."

"Did you ever want to be anything else?"

"I thought of being a Lethe for a while. Or a Lucia. But I like being a Soren. All the Sorens are nice. Except you."

"I think you might make a good Nephenee. You're right. I'm not nice. And I'm not a Soren. I'm a Jill."

"No, you're a Soren. If you travel with us, then you're a Soren."

"Was I a Soren after the reta-muha? Was Ike a Soren?"

"Sort of. You were always a Soren, anyway, even if you didn't know it. But you asked to be a Soren and all that, right? That's why you went and talked with the mouth. Its why anyone talks with the mouth."

"Sort of. I'm pretending to be a Soren to get near your next stop and then kill a guy and then rescue another guy. And then probably fuck the second guy until one of us passes out. My money's one him, to be honest."

"Ike?" she asks, a little bit of raw curiosity eking into her voice.

"No, the other guy I know. Of course, it's Ike. Why? Do I have some competition for him? I'm pretty sure I can take you."

"No. Of course not. I am a Soren. The body is self-contained. It will grow another limb and I shall help the body nourish. It must come from within."

She makes a pointed to effort to look into the canyon with each word. All of them have been committed to memory, the meaning set into the stone of her mind. She knows what they mean and what she wants them to mean. So, she says them and I hear them and I know what the meaning really is.

"Why are you doing all this for him?" she asks. She is trying, I will give her that. She is trying to tamp down everything that tells her to ask. But it is too great. There is a man she saw and she has to ask. It just so happens that a heathen knows the most about him, so here she sits and asks inane questions that I must answer so that the body knows what to expect.

"He tried," I sigh.

"That's a really low bar."

I raise an arm to the sky and let the sharp dance between my outstretched fingers.

"He tried to have some fun with me," I say, "And that's not a low bar. He looked to me and said that I can conquer that. That I can push that. He looked deep into the abyss of me and did not look away. He saw something to play with. And I want to play with him. That's about it."

"That's it?"

"That's it. It's simple really. Doesn't have to be anything more complicated than that. He didn't see a monster, or a threat, or a thing to crush under heel. He saw me as a disaster and thought that I was worth keeping around. I'm starting to think that no from before was a little lie."

"I just, y'know," she whispers, "thought that he might look good in the mask. Or something."

"He's pretty big if that helps give you a picture. Of him. In the mask. Just the mask."

I may not be able to see her face, but I certainly can feel the blush bleed through the worn leather. And I have so much more to tell her.

---

My Soren shadow takes my hand as I lift her over a set of rocks designed to be lifted over. She gets a taste of the current and she is very quick in letting it go. She doesn't like it. It tingles the wrong nerves and pores of the skin and all the things that should not tingle and spark and poke. It's terrible, simply terrible. Things should not tingle and I make them tingle too much. At least she has not asked to make sure that my steps are in time. She has not let up on the mask thing though. I don't blame her. Masks are important.

It's cold, I think. My baseline for such things has been completely shattered by the mere concept of a desert. Its honesty just past chilly, if that. It might even be tepid or warm. I have no clue. I am almost grateful for the mask at this point. Almost. More than anything though, I miss my jacket. It's right over there, in the communal pack of miscellaneous things gathered and left alone. But it would go against the collective to have something so incredibly red and vibrant and amazing on the personage with the name Soren.

They are all so quiet though, as the steps pound and meld into one another. I would think that at this point someone would start saying something, at least just to pass the time. But I guess when everyone is one person, there is nothing left to say. All things are known. All dreams are shared. There is only the subtle shift of facts that change day to day. Since they all witness the same, there is no need to point anything out. I would appreciate the heads-up though, if only for the principle of being included.

It's a building. Of course, it's a building. I don't know what else it could have been. But it's just a square lump of stone jutting from the slope of a mountain. There's a hole missing from the roof, sharpening the stone to a knife. I can see the metal spider web skeleton underneath, poking the sky.

The sharp starts to swell and shift within me now that it is so near. I was made to hurt and bleed and ache. It is only fair that I return the favor in kind. Then I will take Ike back and have him safe and have him inside of me. Then I don't know what. Maybe stay in Fingertree for a spell. Maybe go back across the endless desert. There has to be somewhere green and vibrant somewhere. It's been a while since I've seen that color. It's all reds and browns and tans soaking into the world. Maybe I'll finally muster up the strength to go over the mountains again. It might be green over there.

But there is a knife in the side of the world and a man of gales and gusts sitting on his throne looking down over all there is. I need to drag him down the abyss within me and make him see that there are no grand acts in the world anymore. The Sorens are moving to leave me behind again. I have dillied and dallied long enough. The great walk must continue. The packs must be lightened and then filled again. It is all as it should be once the weight is settled and the feet matching. I don't think I'll be a Soren for much longer. I hope not at least.

I help my Soren over another ridge and she shakes out her hand as the sharp fades from her mind.

"Is it always like that with you," she asks.

"More or less. Sometimes stronger. Sometimes weaker. It fades when I get hurt. But yeah. Do you like the tingle? Because Ike likes the tingle."

She huffs and turns away from me again and I smile. She's fun. I like this Soren. I hope she isn't one for much longer. But she can be. I'm not in the business of telling other people's business. So, a Soren she shall be. As one, we all march to the edge of the mountains, where the world turns steep and the knife in the side of the world looks gleaming and razor. I don't like it. I don't like the way it stands at the world. I should be in that place, ready to scrape and scour. The lump of poured stone does not have claim to my role. It simply fell into the shape that the world made for it. I will tear it down if time does not beat me to it.

It's in a set of ruins, much like the ones in the sand and grit. More structures of poured store, but deep lines in these ones. But not all of them. Bricks of red clay stacked with crumbling mortar and dust calling in the wind. Dead, it is a dead town with dead things crawling through the memories of the stone. I shoulder my cloak a little tighter. It is now finally cold. I almost forgot what it feels like outside my body. Don't know if I prefer it to the heat of the sand, really. I like the suggestion of it, but the excess heat above the world is starting to wear on me. I just feel like there should be some middle ground where everyone is happy and comfortable. But that's silly. There is no comfort here, not in the choking leather and unstable rocks and the cutting wind there tears through the cloak.

I can feel him, Ike. I think I can. I hope I can. Because if I can't, then I am actually losing my mind. There is something massive and heft at the summit of the knife and I will find everything I want there. I better find everything I want there.

For such a massive thing, the doors are positively tiny. They can fit people there just fine enough, but that's about it. They should be bigger. It just looks too off. Maybe we approach the side entrance or something, the one made for small things venturing way over their head. My steps are aligning with theirs, and I don't know if I made them that way or not.

A Soren, the one who carried the rifle, opens the door for the rest of the collective. I'm not sure why. There is no door, just the suggestion of one with a frame and a handle. It might have been made of glass or something. Odd thing to have a door of glass. There is something to be said of something heavy and dark and opaque to keep everything from the world. Glass just lets everything in, hiding nothing important. Kind of impotent, the door that can hide nothing at all. But I don't know what goes into building making. I'm the dumb one.

We all come to a massive room. The roof opens to the sky. I can see the tip of the knife from where I stand. Balconies and landings, stairs lining two pillars set into the far walls. Massive, there is massive and hollow and empty. Wind and gust and breeze dance through the open air.

The sharp responds in kind. It sparks and dances and lets the whole of my body know that I have played at being something sane and sapient for long enough. I know I have. I know that I should let It all out, let the veneer fall to the mask and the hope that I will be nothing at all. The wastes and the snow scoured hills, that is all I am. And that is just a thought.

A wind comes from the echoing ceiling and carries a woman down with the bouncing noise. Fair skin, dark hair and three circles in deep red over her left eye. It does go very well with the gold in her eyes.

"We are here to trade," says the Soren with the gun. As a single motion, we all nod.

"Wrong," says the woman with a voice like the shattering of metal, "You are here to pay tribute."

"We are here to trade," says the same Soren, "That is the terms of our dealings. Should you not return the act in kind, then you are not entitled to such a deal. I state once more. We have goods to trade. Not give. The collective shall deem whether or not the act has value."

She sighs and lets the noise bounce once more, turning the solo to a chorus. There is will from her, manifest and succinct, and the structure sings with her in creaks and groans that shake the earth. The skeleton of the behemoth bends and twists and shakes to encircle us all.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," she says, "But there is no trade in this house. Merely tribute and worship. If you are not here to do either, then you are of no use to his splendor."

She approaches and the sharp keeps wanting to break the chain. I can't stop it. There is no stopping it. It leaps from my palms and tries to run her through. The metal cage takes the knife and makes it dull.

"And I figured that was what I felt," she sighs, "There is only one thing to do with something like you, my friends. Just stay here and be good. This will all be sorted out."

My hands go to the bars and more and more and more of the sharp pours out of me into the metal. And it takes it all. The cage starts to glow and I get some of the woman's attention. I can make this bend. I can make this break. The metal will bend and pool at my feet. Then her skin will char and bubble and blister as her eyes will grow dead and cold as she falls to the floor and never rises again.

A pipe comes to my temple and my vision sparks.

"I'm actually surprised we missed you," she whispers, "King Bryce feeling something else in Fingertree, but it was so weak. No matter. You are here now. As you should be."

"I'm here for Ike and then I'm going to tear this entire place to the ground," I say.