IGS #4, Chapter 47 (Revision)

[This Chapter will appear after Chapter 46, wherein Scorio is thrust into the Cube's Gauntlet and initially fails to fight off the blockhead . A new edit introduced during his first exchange with Anseline is the revelation that Myla's real name is 'Fionna'; Myla, it turns out, is an assumed identity. Here is Chapter 47, following Scorio's own, from her POV.]

Fionna

It wasn’t fair.

She’d never asked for any of this. At least, not in this life.

She’d just woken up in the Tomb to be greeted by Prisca and ushered into her new role. Herdswoman. Welcome, here’s your robe, here’s your future, here’s a decision you made a thousand years ago and now you’re wedded to it, no chance to change, no option but to grin and bear it and do your damned best.

And look where it had brought her.

It wasn’t fair.

Had she ever complained? Sure, she might not have always given the creed and the mission her all, perhaps at times she’d coasted, but she’d never failed, never been insufficient to the task. She’d reached Pyre Lady in less than six years, and fine, that might not raise any eyebrows or mark her as a prodigy, but it was still pretty damn fast, and—and—

Fionna screwed her eyes shut tightly and clutched at her neck, tried to curl up into a ball, the tiniest target possible.

Not that it would make a difference. Not that the Keeper would fail to notice her. But she couldn’t help it, pathetic as it made her feel. It was all she could do to not just collapse sobbing upon the sand.

Though she knew that would come, sooner or later.

How? Why? What had she done wrong? She’d delivered, she’d lured Scorio in, she’d played the long game so perfectly Kuragin had never doubted her, not once questioned her ‘Myla’ persona. She’d—

Running footsteps. The Keeper, he was here, implacable, sadistic, and utterly ruthless. No begging, no reasoning, it was all futile. All she could do was cower like a broken cur and await the lash, the burn, the pain—

Fire erupted across her scalp and shoulders. She barely had time to scream before it was over, and she was back on her feet, pain receding, blood in her mouth from where she’d just bitten her tongue, and Scorio?

The bastard was just standing there, gazing at the tunnel with a pensive expression, as if he were trying to figure out a complex math problem. Insanity. Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he see how utterly and truly fucked they were? The urge to laugh bubbled up within her, to yell at him, to shake him by the shoulders till he understood.

But instead she just dropped into a crouch again.

This wouldn’t end. The only release would come when her mind finally broke, and she just lay there babbling and soiling herself, not noticing each death, driven utterly mad by the prospect of eternity in the Outer Gauntlet, and the Keeper, the Keeper would never relent, never grow bored, never—

Footsteps.

“Please,” she whispered into her kneecaps. “Please. Please.”

Nobody heard her begging. Nobody answered.

She cringed, tightened her whole body like a fist as Scorio went down roaring his defiance, taken apart by the Keeper, who paused before her, as if inviting her to look up. When she refused, a tremendous blow caught her across the head, and then she was on her side, the pain impossible and her head loose and throbbing, one eye burst, until it placed its boot on her throat and pressed—

Fionna was back on her feet, hands flying to her neck, gulping and gasping for breath as the pain faded again. Tremulous, horrified laughter burbled up from the abyss of terror that was consuming her soul, and it was only by clamping her hand over her mouth that she kept it bottled in.

Scorio was tonguing the inside of his cheek, hands on his hips, staring off into the middle distance again.

Fionna shook her head in wonder. Scorio. The mighty, dreaded, fucking—him. The Whispered agent of chaos, Anseline’s obsession, the infamous, the—the—

Fionna pressed the base of her palms to her eyes so hard she saw crimson stars shooting across sprays of white and gold behind her eyelids.

He was just a Great Soul. Sure, he’d accomplished fantastical things, but he was just a man. He couldn’t defeat a Charnel Duke challenge. In this life he was just a bloody Pyre Lord like her! It was—Anseline was mad, she’d finally gone completely insane, so what if Scorio had once been one of their number, if his statue stood prominent in the Gallery of Luminaries, if he—if he’d—what? Founded, or helped found their—their—

Footsteps, running, racing toward them, like a bride late to her own wedding, tripsome, lithesome, the Keeper eager for blood, for endless torrents of blood that would never sate its—

It cut her down mercifully from a distance, unseaming her across the gut so that organs and boiling blood poured forth as she screamed and clutched at her own dissolution, falling to her knees as Scorio struggled to rise and face the Keeper, so stupid, so stupid, didn’t he understand?!

Death.

Life.

She was back on her feet.

Madness. It couldn’t come quickly enough.

Scorio again stood tall, frowning, silent, stoic.

Did he think he could reason his way out of this? Perhaps their only way out was for Scorio to fail so abjectly that she’d pluck them both forth, and then Fionna would find a reprieve, but first Scorio had to crumple, to break, to beg.

Beg, she commanded him, trying to will his legs to buckle, his eyes to widen in horror. Beg!

But he wouldn’t.

Perhaps Prisca would come rescue her. Rise from the Scorched Swale to come flying to her aid, to pluck her from this Gauntlet, but would she, could she? She was a Charnel Duchess like Anseline, would her authority override the Lady of the Cube…? If not, perhaps she could appeal to one of the two Red Queens, but no, what would they care, unless they realized how Anseline’s madness was endangering them all, but oh, that would take too long, weeks and weeks, and it had only been, what, an hour that she and Scorio had been trapped in here?

No escape.

Not with her mind intact.

The Keeper burst into the chamber and slew them anew.

Fionna came back to life and immediately began weeping. Scenes from her life came to her, her first four years in the Cube, the endless explorations of the echoing, abandoned halls, the gleaming racks of weaponry in the storage rooms, the works of art, the magical machines. Training in the Inner Gauntlet, exploring each stage of Hell with Prisca or Gorax watching over her, guiding her, teaching her to master her own powers.

Innocent years. Lonely years. Hours and sometimes days spent by herself, child-like, reading ancient texts or simply sitting and singing in beautiful chambers, to sleep long hours, to look forward to her lessons on Hell and its politics and the purposeful madness they were engendering.

How she’d longed for freedom, to reach Flame Vault so she could finally venture forth from the Cube, withstand the Curse by herself, and be shown the wonders and mysteries of Hell!

Fionna buried her face in her hands and wept. Prison. She’d been born into a prison, and told that if she tried hard enough, if she tricked enough people, if she pleased the Bishops and Queens and through them the two Red Kings, she’d be rewarded, she’d find purpose, she’d make a difference.

The Keeper entered the room. How horrible to have it be so merciless, after so many years of it being her sparring partner! How perverse, how—

Death.

Fionna awoke on her feet, pain melting away from her face.

Scorio crossed his arms and exhaled heavily, brow furrowed.

“What are you even thinking about?” she screamed at him. “What is there to—you—don’t you understand?”

He eyed her, then looked away.

She wasn’t even worth replying to. Of course not. What had she brought him but ruin and perdition in the Outer Gauntlet? Why wasn’t he striking her down, why had he even let her live? She’d thought it weakness on his part, but now—was she simply not even worth killing? Yelling at? Considering?

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she stared at him. He might as well have been carved from rock. The Third Lord of the Cube. He didn’t even know! Didn’t realize the role he’d played in all this, how stupid he sounded as he asked about the Herdsmen! Fionna sneered at him. The desire to hurt him arose within her, but she bit it back. Anseline might be listening, and if she revealed—

The Keeper stormed back into the hall. Had she once thought it handsome, in its own cultured manner? What a little idiot she’d been, confiding her secrets to it during her training sessions, imagining it an attentive listener, her truest, only friend? She could remember clasping it during one terrible evening, weeping into that black brocade, telling it how much she hated Prisca, how horrible everything was, and how, by the gods, how she’d yearned for it to just raise one gloved hand, to pat her back, anything—

Death.

Still Scorio didn’t break. Still he stared thoughtfully off into nothingness. It was inhuman. He was a monster. Or—no. She’d seen how his friends respected him. How they’d listen to his words, the respect bought by his deeds, his blood, his actions.

Handsome, accomplished, his body a—Fionna winced and looked away, somehow still able to be appalled and amused at her fancies, how that one evening when she’d seen him without his shirt as he washed himself at camp, the ridiculous, the utterly ridiculous musculature of the man—

Here it was. She grew calm. She was growing mad.

The Keeper charged into the room and blasted her apart.

This time she took off running, unable to stay still, to just wait like Scorio was doing.  She sprinted down dark halls, screaming as she ran, but the Keeper found her, and even as she begged for it to stop, to not hurt her, tried to remind it of their one-sided friendship, how she’d even come to think of it as a stern uncle, a friend—

Death.

Self-pity consumed her. She curled up into a ball again, wrapped her arms about her head. So many years alone in the Cube, and then when she was finally sent out into Hell? It was as ‘Myla’, a dead Great Soul whose records could be verified at the Academy, and she’d lived a lie, made friends as another, her secret identity hanging between her and everyone she met, so that she was still alone, but now painfully aware of just how rich and wonderful Hell could be, to watch people laugh and confess their true feelings, to form real bonds, to let down their guard with each other.

She’d thought of doing the same. Confessing to Kuragin, or Atelie, had been about to tell Quentos that terrible, beautiful evening after he’d kissed her in the rain, but then he’d gone and gotten himself killed at the Causeway, and…

So many missed opportunities. So many losses. So much sadness. So much pain.

And for what?

To help the Herdsmen with their secret, stupid quest to save their kind and return to Eterra when the time was right.

Loathing, an old friend, blazed to life in her heart as she hugged her shins and waited for the Keeper. Loathing for Anseline and her increasingly erratic ways. For the silence that echoed in the Cube’s halls and promenades, places once filled with life but now the haunt of ghosts and failed ambitions.

Loathing for herself. For having always sought to please those who abused her. For yearning so madly for Prisca’s approval, for Anseline’s respect, for her fellow Pyre Lord’s love.

Love.

What did a twisted little thing like her know or deserve of love?

The Keeper ran into the hall, and killed them both.

Pain, rebirth, fresh hell.

She stared at Scorio. He’d known love. He was loved. She could only imagine how horrified his companions had been when they’d seen him stolen away. He’d earned those friendships. How? By being true to himself. His stupid, misguided, idiotic ambitions. To uncover the Herdsmen! His own organization! The fool!

But her bitter amusement had grown thin, and didn’t even convince her. She let those thoughts fall away and studied him anew, really looked at him.

Why wasn’t he scared?

How did he not fear the coming of the Keeper? Was he just that strong? He’d been through so much, true, but this situation would undo anybody, wouldn’t it?

If only she’d met him before. When she was young. When she’d needed a friend. What if she’d not been born a Herdsmen, could she have been part of his crew? Might he have come to like her, respect her, if she liked and respected him back?

She thought of Leonis’ rough grin, of Kelona’s adoration, how Nyrix leaped at Scorio’s every request, Jova’s grudging admiration. Thought of the missing Lianshi, the incredibly mysterious Naomi. Could Fionna have been counted amongst their number if she’d been born in the Academy?

Her eyes brimmed with a different kind of grief, and she buried her face again. That would have been… would have been… nice.

To not be taught to lie, deceive, trick, coerce, compel, and manipulate everyone she met.

To just be… to just be herself.

The Keeper slew them both.

“How?” she asked Scorio when they were reborn. “How are you just standing there?”

She thought he’d not answer. But then, he did. “I’ve no choice.”

“What do you mean?” She wanted to laugh, was amazed, furious. “Of course you do!”

“No. Not if we’re to get out of here.”

She could only stare, then, as the footsteps grew louder: “We’re not getting out.”

His grin was rough, weary, indomitable. “Oh, we’re getting out. One way or another. Hang in there, Myla. We can do this.”

And then he looked away, brow furrowing with thought.

She could only stare.

We?

Instinct, trained by brutal years of abuse, urged her to mock him, to scorn him, to laugh in his face.

But she crushed that instinct as a deeper realization took hold: he not only believed he could get them out of here, but to her horror and amazement, she actually thought that if anybody could, it was him.

Fionna bit her lower lip. What? Was this how her madness would manifest? Misplaced, lunatic hope?

Studying Scorio, watching his calm deliberation, she realized his was a perverse mirror of her own life. But where she’d believed she’d no choice but to be a Herdsmen, he’d never let anyone dictate what he had to do.

Which meant… that now, here, in this darkest of moments, she could continue a life of obedience, or she could… fight back.

Find a way to actually help him.

How, she didn’t know.

But perhaps the first step lay in choosing not to despair. To… to place her faith in his strength, his ironclad will, his brutal intolerance of defeat.

Fionna inhaled deeply, her shoulders settling, and pulled herself back from the brink of madness.

Damn Anseline. Damn Prisca. Damn Gorax, the Cube, and all the rest of them.

Maybe it was too late to make a difference, but… she’d never know if she didn’t try.

The Keeper raced into the room once more.