Order of the Shattered Cross: Pt. 06

This month was much more open for me to really work on writing and get it released within a monthly schedule. I've figured out the best ways to utilize my time after I got my new position at work. This new position is significantly better for hobbies.

I'd like to thank Lastman for the assistance with the editing and giving it a first look.

--

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had.

It never allowed him an ounce of peace, not once in over forty years. The bombardment of artillery, the flashes of flares and explosions lit up the night sky. Even through the deafening roar of warfare he could hear the Chinese announcing their charge with bugles and whistles. Shells crashing into the Earth rocked him from his slumber, and he frantically searched for his weapon and his Chaplain. Chaplain Johan Weber had a horrid habit of disregarding his own safety. When Timothy finally found him, he was across the battlefield providing last rites to a dead Chinese soldier, seemingly oblivious to the war around him.

Timothy called out to him, and Chaplain Johan Weber gave his assistant one last smile before a friendly artillery round vaporized him, and everything went black.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had.

It never allowed him an ounce of peace, not once in over forty years. The bombardment of artillery, the flashes of flares and explosions lit up the night sky. Even through the deafening roar of warfare he could hear the Chinese announcing their charge with bugles and whistles. Shells crashing into the Earth rocked him from his slumber, and he frantically searched for his weapon and his Chaplain. Chaplain Johan Weber had a horrid habit of disregarding his own safety. When Timothy finally found him, he was across the battlefield providing last rites to a dead Chinese soldier, seemingly oblivious to the war around him.

Timothy called out to him, and Chaplain Johan Weber gave his assistant one last smile before a friendly artillery round vaporized him, and everything went black.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare...again?

Timothy closed his eyes and slowly opened them, remaining in his dream but somehow aware it was a dream. How many times had he had this dream since he fell asleep? Why couldn't he wake up this time? Why did he know it was a dream?

He wanted time to freeze, so it froze. He stepped across the battlefield, pushing bullets and debris away from his path as if they were insects caught in a spider's web. Chaplain Johan Weber was a statue, perpetually in a pose of prayer to guide an enemy soldier to the afterlife.

"I can save you this time," Timothy said to himself, and reached to grab his Chaplain. He wanted to lift him onto his shoulders and carry him to safety. They'd wait out the battle and survive together. This time it would be different.

"You cannot save me Timothy," a voice from behind him said. Timothy turned around and saw nothing. Not darkness, nothing. A void of inescapable shroud so mind collapsing, he forgot to breathe when he stared into its hollow eyes. "Let me go." The voice said, and Timothy turned around once more, and Johan was gone. Everything was gone. He was trapped in a cage without bars. Timothy spun in fast, panicked circles, hyperventilating as he swung his body looking for any speck of anything.

For the briefest of moments, he wondered to himself what his feet were on. Surely if he were standing, his feet would be resting on something, even if he couldn't see it. The mere thought made it vanish, and that stability was replaced with the sensation of falling. The wind whipped past his face, and he smiled. Wind was something. The moment he thought it, his fall became windless. Falling itself was something. That meant gravity. The mere thought changed the sensation to floating. He could stretch his body out in any direction and never touch a thing. Even if he were moving, there was no way to know in which direction and relative to what. He blinked, and even that didn't feel real. The darkness with his eyes open was undistinguishable from his eyes closed.

Nothing. Mind crushing nothing.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had.

It never allowed him an ounce of peace, not once in over forty years. The bombardment of artillery, the flashes of flares and explosions lit up the night sky. Even through the deafening roar of warfare he could hear the Chinese announcing their charge with bugles and whistles. Shells crashing into the Earth...no. Not Again!

"Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" Timothy begged, falling to his knees in his foxhole while squeezing the sides of his head. "No more. Please, no more," Timothy cried. He fell to his side and curled himself into a ball and cried. "No more."

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had, but he knew he was dreaming.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had, and he knew how it always ended.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had, but he knew it would never end.

Every time the nightmare brought him to the precipice of insanity before letting him go. Maybe if he thought the right thing, he could escape. That pebble of hope was the only thing that kept his mind from breaking regardless of how bent and warped it became.

"You cannot save me Timothy," the voice said, and Timothy faced it again. It was empty again, and it started over.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had.

"You cannot save me Timothy," the voice said, and Timothy finally realized who was speaking. How many times had he forgotten he heard it, before he truly heard it?

"Then why do I keep dreaming this?" Timothy asked and turned around to face the voice. It was Johan, in his US Army uniform. His helmet with the white cross was tucked under his arm at the crook of his elbow.

"Hello Timothy," Johan said with a warm smile Timothy missed more than the Sun.

"Where are we?" Timothy asked.

"It looks like Korea," Johan said, and sat down on the sandbag forming the outermost shell of Timothy's foxhole. "You're misremembering a few details. See those stars? Wrong constellations," he said while pointing to the night sky.

"That's not important," Timothy said.

"When you lose the stars Timothy, that's when you're truly lost," Johan said.

"What does that even mean?" Timothy asked as he sat down next to him. "You always spoke in riddles and called it guidance."

"I spoke in allegory Timothy, not riddles. Details matter," he said and removed his worn bible from under the coat of his uniform. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"I haven't smoked in thirty years," Timothy replied, but patted his pockets for the tin regardless. He felt the tin in his right pocket. "Son of a bitch." Timothy opened the tin and extended it out to Johan. Johan removed two unfiltered cigarettes and lit both with the same match and handed the second to Timothy. The same way Timothy used to light their cigarettes during the war. "Not like it counts in here."

Timothy placed the cigarettes between his index and middle finger and took in a hefty drag of smoke. It felt just like he remembered. That instant calm. The occasional light headedness if he stood up too soon afterwards.

"That takes me back," Timothy said with a chuckle. "Where have you been Johan?"

"I never went anywhere Timothy."

"Then you just abandoned me. I needed you, and you left me."

"You never needed me, Timothy. I was holding you back. For years you always asked me what to do. Johan, tell me what to do. Johan, what do I do? Johan. Johan. Johan. You never grew because of it. You always hesitated, until you didn't. When Flauros was going to possess that man, you acted."

"I killed him, and you never spoke to me again. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

"It helped you become the most revered fractured in the world. I know I caused grief, but even telling you that you did the right thing, would have only served to have you continuously seek my approval. A baby chick feels abandoned when it's kicked from a nest. We tend to think we're not loved or wanted when that happens to us. Do you know what a chick thinks when that happens?" Johan asked, and Timothy shook his head. "Holy shit, I can fly!"

Timothy laughed, nearly coughing up the smoke that was in his lungs as he did.

"You flew Timothy. You flew so strong and naturally, you didn't even notice you were flying. You never needed me. There is someone who does need you, right now."

"Michelle?" Timothy asked, and Johan shook his head.

"She can fly, and that witch will learn the hard way. I speak of your maiden."

"That girl does not need me."

"She needs you more than you could ever imagine. But first, you need to escape this dream, so you can help her escape her own."

Timothy dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. He traced his eyes along his leg and saw his khakis and not his Army uniform from the war. It was a realization that made him aware how far he had come to controlling this dreamscape. He saw the battlefield of Chipyong-ni of Korea. The bullets and shrapnel frozen in place. He looked past Johan and saw his other self, kneeling next to a body. Johan looked to where Timothy's eyes went, and then back to Timothy.

"You cannot save me Timothy. Let me go," Johan said. "There is only one thing keeping you here."

"I know," Timothy said, and stood up to look at the night sky. "It's me."

"The worst prison is the one we create for ourselves. Let go," Johan said again, and stood up with him.

"I missed you Johan," Timothy said, and watched as the stars corrected themselves. They moved into their proper place, now reflecting the sky as it appeared that night. Timothy turned and Johan was gone. "I always will. I hope you found your peace."

He looked across the battlefield and began to walk toward him. Time resumed, and Timothy could hear the bullets cracking past his head. The screams of the enemy were approaching.

"Johan!" he heard himself scream. He turned and saw himself running to save him. He watched how it always ended with both of their deaths. He accepted that moment as it was.

Timothy Augustine had the nightmare he always had, and then he opened his eyes.

--

Eterna had the nightmare she always had.

Sitting in the forested mountains overlooking a German village. There was a fire that raged all night and into the morning hours. The faint glow of the embers were cast into the sky like a galaxy of stars. It was cold and she was alone. She was always alone. There was something about this memory she always came back to. The loneliest she had ever felt in her exceptionally long life.

Eterna hugged her legs and pulled them to her chest to curl herself in a ball. She could start a fire, like the one she had in the village, but the cold felt like a suitable punishment. Even when she protected people, they hated her. They feared her. They were wise to fear her, a truth she couldn't argue. Tragedy followed her closer than her own shadow.

"I found you," she heard a voice say. Eterna turned over her shoulder and saw Timothy standing near a tree. Eterna slowly turned away and looked at the fire.

Never once in the thousands of times she had revisited this memory had anything changed about it. Did Timothy appear because she wanted him to? Was he even there? Memory Diving could be thorny. One stray thought could distort everything.

Eterna closed her eyes and tried to focus Timothy out of this memory, but she heard the crunch of his footsteps. She opened her eyes, and he was sitting on the edge of the cliff with his feet dangling over the deadly fall. This Timothy was not a manifestation of her thoughts. His presence within their souls had found her.

"How did you find me? I purposefully hid myself away," Eterna said.

"Stars," Timothy said, and looked at her. "Stars have always been the road map of the universe." Eterna looked at her toes and sighed. "You took one look at the witch and ran to the deepest recesses of your memories. Who is Gwendoline?"

"Eternal life sounds like a gift," Eterna started, and uncoiled herself to stand up. "It's not. But I suppose my current state necessitates a question."

"If you were immortal, how did you die?" Timothy asked. He had patiently waited for the correct moment to ask that question.

"I'm my mother's 444^th daughter. Do you know what the means?" Eterna asked.

"Your dad needed to get off her?" Timothy asked sarcastically.

"It means she watched 443 daughters die," Eterna said. "And she watched their children die. And their children die as well. Eternal life is watching your world die again and again. My mother and father were eternal beings, but they gave me their immortality because she couldn't bear to watch anymore more of her children die. Then my parents died, and I was alone. I've been alone for a very long time."

"You're not alone anymore," Timothy said.

"Of course I am," Eterna said and walked to the cliff to sit with him. "I'm dead and I died before I got to truly live. I never got to become a woman. Or a mother."

"You wanted to be a mother?" Timothy asked.

"I wanted the option at least," Eterna said and leaned back, propping herself up with her hands planted on the ground behind her. "I understand why my mother did it. That doesn't mean I don't hate her for it."

"I need you to come back with me," Timothy said and Eterna shook her head. "Do you fear Gwendoline that much?"

"Hello little one," they both heard someone say. A feminine voice echoing from the tree line behind them. Timothy followed the voice and saw another Eterna, still sitting in a ball. "Don't be afraid."

Timothy stood up from the cliffside and watched as the voice emerged from the darkness, as if stepping out from behind a curtain of shadow. Like she was the darkness itself and was merely sending out a part of her. It was Gwendoline, appearing no different than she would centuries later. Beautiful with dark hair, nude beneath a thin white cloak.

"Go away," the memory of Eterna said from her ball.

"Come now Sister, you have no need to fear me," Gwendoline said. "I know who you are."

"Go away."

"Daughter of Lilith," Gwendoline said, and the memory unraveled herself.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Gwendoline. I've been looking for you for quite some time."

"How did you find me?" the memory asked.

"I followed the undeniable trail of destruction you leave behind," Gwendoline replied. "Rest assured sister, I'm not afraid of a little fire. I'm here to grant you your greatest wish. I can give you what you want."

"What do I want then?" she asked.

"To live. To truly live."

Eterna grabbed Timothy's hand as she focused her mind to take them to a different memory. The Earth beneath their feet spun like they were standing an inch above a revolving globe. Timothy watched the night sky rush past like a planetarium. When everything stopped, they were somewhere else. In a different memory. The sky was no longer above them.

"Grant this chamber your name," Gwendoline said.

Timothy looked around and saw they were in a domed chamber, like the one in his most recent memory. Only the fires of the braziers were black flames which provided a shadowed light. It made everything appear like a black and white photograph.

"I Eterna, daughter of Lilith, grant this chamber my name," the memory said. Timothy found her standing in the center of the chamber.

"What's happening?" Timothy asked.

"This is how you make an immortal, mortal," Eterna replied.

Five witches, each at a point of the pentagram, chanted in a language Timothy couldn't understand. The dark flames floated from the braziers and drifted toward the center where the memory of Eterna stood. They all converged, forming a great fire which erupted for several seconds. The chanting grew to a crescendo, and the five black flames, now white, shot back to the corners of the pentagram and collided with the five witches performing the ritual.

"Humans are too frail to contain the power of an Edenian. Not one of them was powerful enough to claim my power for themselves. So, they split it five ways. Even that was too much."

One witch immediately began to scream before she burst into flames and crumpled to the floor as a pile of charred bones. A second followed the same fate. Two more struggled, squirming on the ground as if having a seizure. They lasted longer but soon combusted and were reduced to ash. The last witch hardly flinched. She cloaked herself in darkness, like a protective cocoon to contain the new energy. The cocoon began to crack like an egg hatching. It burst open like a bomb. Timothy shielded his eyes with his arms from the burst of light. When he lowered his hands, he saw Gwendoline on the ground on all fours, breathing hard, but very much alive.

The memory of Eterna looked at her hands, and slowly smiled. She felt different. She felt the cold ground beneath her feet like she never had before. The air tasted different. Everything felt finite. Every new experience felt enhanced by the knowledge this could be the last time she experienced it. Eterna was mortal.

"Then she killed you?" Timothy asked.

"She did much worse than that."

Eterna took his hand, and they were now standing in the center of a crowd. Timothy saw people push his way through his body like he wasn't there, which he truly wasn't. He scanned the area and saw they were in a village. Something was happening, and he couldn't immediately figure it out. People were being dragged out of their homes. People were screaming for mercy, as others shouted a word Timothy instinctually understood.

"Hexe, hexe, hexe!"

"Witch, witch, witch!"

"I came back to this village. I wanted to see him again," Eterna said, and Timothy looked at her. "I had this wonderfully childish thought in my mind. I could grow up. We'd fall in love, and I'd become his wife. I'd bear our children, and they'd be around my bedside when I finally died. Instead, he only remembered me as the girl who started the fire. He only saw a witch."

Eterna turned and Timothy's eyes followed. He saw a row of large stakes. Men women and children were being dragged to the stakes while begging for their lives.

"Witch, witch, witch!"

"August, please!" Timothy heard. The voice was familiar. He glided through the crowd and saw a memory of Eterna, her face drowned in tears as they tied her to the stake. She kicked, screamed, and even tried to bite her attackers. "Tell them! Tell them I'm not a witch!"

Timothy saw the small boy she was pleading with. He was her perceived age and standing next to a man wearing a wooden cross outside of his shirt. Timothy couldn't help but think he knew that cross. The men tying her paused for a moment, until August told them she started the fire that killed the three boys and their father.

"Please! I want to live! No! I didn't live!" the memory screamed. She was fully tied to the stake and continued to fight against her binds.

"Why couldn't you escape?" Timothy asked. "You weren't immortal but you're still a witch."

Timothy watched as the memory saw someone in the crowd. He turned and saw Gwendoline in her cloak, half of her face exposed, revealing a sinister grin.

"Gwendoline, please help me! Tell them!" the memory begged. Gwendoline stepped forward and stopped in front of her. "My powers won't work, I need you." She whispered in tears.

"Your powers are working just fine," Gwendoline said. "You push, and I push back."

"You're countering my magic? Why?" the memory asked. Gwendoline stepped away from her as a man with a torch began to light the tinder beneath the victims. The memory was the fifth in line. "Why!?" The second and third were lit. "Why!?"

The memory tried to focus all the magic she could muster, but Gwendoline pushed it back. She was in a fight for her life. She clinched her eyes shut and struggled with all her energy. Given enough time, she could overpower her, but time was not on her side. The memory let out a rageful scream and opened her eyes. Standing in front of her was August. At that moment, she gave up entirely. Any desire to live she had remaining evaporated like water in a boiling pot.