Chapter Text
“Pip, why did you do that?” Caleb asks with this odd mixture of exasperation and fear that has entered his voice recently.
It’s not nice, and Philip doesn’t like it, but whatever he does and however hard he tries, Caleb keeps on using that tone with him.
“It’s just an earthworm,” he explains with a shrug.
“And the last time it was just a cat.”
“A black cat,” Philip corrects his brother.
Caleb grimaces. “Some cats are just black, Pip.”
Philip doesn’t agree. It’s like saying some roosters just lay eggs. If one was to just shrug off the manifestations of evil, the world would truly be a contemptible place. It is one thing to understand the inevitability of sin, another to embrace it without even trying to oppose it. Lord Christ certainly did not stand idly watching the evil unfold. He was fully capable of righteous ire. He set the example: He fought off demons and healed the possessed, took the whip in His divine hand and drove the vile men away from His Father’s temple.
And yet, “It’s just an earthworm” is what Philip ends up saying again. By now, he knows better than to voice some of his thoughts when Caleb’s in one of these moods. His brother is much too preoccupied with the reactions he imagines townsfolk might have to anything Philip says.
Sometimes, Caleb even yells at him for the silliest of things. It’s a fairly new development. Philip doesn’t really remember what it was like to have parents, but he certainly remembers what it was like to not live in Gravesfield. It was nicer, and nobody was angry at him for using his left hand or speaking out of turn.
He doesn’t understand why Caleb is scowling like that, especially now, when both halves of the worm are writhing from side to side, changing their shapes rapidly. Gross, yes, but also very informative. Oddly enthralling, Philip must admit. They ought to move in perfect unison, and yet they do not, performing haphazard twitches that should only be seen on a body that has recently died. They don’t work as one organism anymore, it would seem, but they refuse to still.
There are two separate bodies that the Emperor has. One is very old and fragile. With every day passing, it’s more fatigued, losing the fight against the curse. This body’s joints ache when the weather changes and ache when it doesn’t. It requires palismen to keep its form. It doesn’t lack any teeth, but that’s rather unfortunate, given how sensitive they are to low temperatures and sour tastes.
When the curse pours over, depriving the body of its shape and grotesquely elongating its limbs, it loses fingernails by the time the sludge finally recedes. It doesn’t matter how well-versed in healing magic the Emperor is, at some point the nailbeds just start hurting permanently. Which is a good thing. It means there’s no necrosis.
This body is dying, has been dying for decades, and there’s no way around it. The palismen just prolong the inevitable. They buy this body time so that the Emperor can accomplish his mission, but eventually, his iron will is not going to be enough to keep it moving and breathing. Oh, don’t give me that look, William. You know it’s true.
On bad days, this body’s breath smells like something dead and rotten, and on really bad days, when it coughs into a handkerchief, there are maggots squirming in the sputum. The Emperor makes sure to burn the piece of fabric immediately, but it doesn’t change the harsh realities. He isn’t in full control of his body — and no wonder, no witch and no demon have such power. When bodies hurt, they just hurt, and when they rebel, they rebel, even though the curse has made sure that this one rebels more than any other. To witness this body’s failings is dangerous and, if one doesn’t have enough common sense to move aside when the Emperor’s hands turn into spikes, then yes, painful at times. But it is also the greatest privilege there is. It is the sign of ultimate trust to be allowed so close. If someone truly loves the Emperor as dearly as he claims he does, he stays by the Emperor’s side, Hunter.
Like all bodies, this one needs to eat, sleep, and sometimes perform other functions discreetly. With every year passing, its sleep gets interrupted more and more frequently by said functions. This body has foods it finds agreeable and many more that make it nauseous, but the ones it likes, it really likes. It’s tall, but straightening its back hurts, so it spends most of the time hunched. But watch closely, my dear boy. That other one might be slightly hunched as well, but it’s sitting on a throne, and when it stands, it stands tall, towering over everyone else.
That other body, Luke, the one that never ceases to command respect, belongs to the most powerful witch on the entire Isles, who knows, perhaps in the entire realm. It is untouchable, and there are those who say it’s immortal.
Almost nobody has seen it, it remains hidden behind the mask and the gauntlets. It has magic no other body possesses and no one in the Isles has ever seen before. The Emperor conjures up blades made out of flesh that are sharper and harder than any steel. He makes the ground swallow him and spit him out anywhere he pleases, provided he’s willing to deal with the inconvenience of limbs materializing twisted in ways no other body’s joints would allow. He speaks to the Titan Himself, and it’s very obvious he has some connection to His flesh, being able to summon vines, limbs and tendons from the ground with nothing but a wave of a hand. The Emperor’s magic operates on that which is alive, but not quite. He animates the tools he requires.
The Golden Guard has similar magic, although it’s merely borrowed from the Emperor and cannot be used without the staff. The staff, mind you, Timothy, is just one part of his regalia. It marks him as the Emperor’s, yes, but the thing that truly marks him is the mask. Did you know that ancient humans had one and the same word for a person and a mask? Did you know that once upon a time masks were supposed to not hide but convey the nature of the one wearing them?
Indeed, Simon. Thou would also know of such matters, had thou ever shown any actual interest in what I’m attempting to share with thee. They were savages with no understanding of the Titan’s will, and they used faulty and frivolous ways to convey their ideas, but at times they were remarkably perceptive. They already knew there’s a chasm tween what’s merely moving and what’s worthy of being called alive. Those are separate things, my boy, and it’s high time thou understood that.
“You need to respect that which moves and breathes,” Caleb says, nonetheless. He sounds tired. He probably is tired. The haymaking has been over for weeks now, but being Mr. White’s plowman is difficult even in Autumn. Especially in autumn, Philip supposes. “It’s life, Pip, and you should hold it in reverence at all times.”
“Oh, really,” Philip deadpans, not taking his eyes off the squirming worms. He’s not convinced they even can breathe.
“Yes. Really. Doesn’t the Good Book say: thou shalt not kill?”
It does, but at this point Philip has become quite an expert at what else the Good Book says. “I’m almost certain it does not have the meaning that you believe it has,” he claims, trying to appear both nonchalant and, more importantly, educated. Father Barrowe talks exactly like that.
“Sounds quite forthright to me,” Caleb mutters, and Philip flinches at the dismissive note. He doesn’t need to look. Even without doing so, he’s absolutely sure his brother just shrugged.
“I think it means some killing. Killing those God doesn’t want killed. Not all of it,” the younger boy says, picking up a stick a prodding at the earthworm. It twists and curls up in a weird manner. “There’s bad killing and there’s… just killing.”
Caleb reluctantly plops down next to him, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness of the sun that is approaching the horizon. They should already be on their way home, if Philip’s being honest.
“I think you must have read some very different book, Pip. And it really doesn’t sound like the Good one.”
“Leviticus,” Philip proclaims, and his brother gives him a disoriented look. Philip inhales and recites, loud and clear, “And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.”
“That’s...” Caleb hesitates, scrunching his nose. “Erm. An oddly specific quote to remember.” Another uncertain pause. “But it’s a warning, right? About the terrible things that might fall upon the ones who don’t listen.”
Philip nods reluctantly.
“See? A warning is supposed to be scary exactly because it describes something dreadful. It’s definitely not a command, Pip.”
“Go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling,” Philip interjects. His voice didn’t waver at any point, there was no undignified um or unsure erm, and he got the entire quote right. He allows himself a smirk, he’s earned it. “Now, that’s a command.”
Caleb seems to waver, but Philip, again refusing to tear his gaze off the shapes writhing on the ground, doesn’t know what expression he’s making this time.
“Pip?” the older boy finally inquires. “Did you… did you memorize these passages?”
“Yes?” Philip offers tentatively.
Another beat passes, and the praise still doesn’t come.
“Why?” Caleb eventually asks in bafflement.
Oh.
“Just liked them, I guess,” Philip says. Now it’s his turn to shrug, even though shrugging about the Word of Lord God feels very wrong.
Caleb gives a non-committal grunt, and Philip really hopes that’s the end of it. It seems like whatever his brother wants to say next, the conversation is not going even remotely according to what Philip was imagining. It is as if Philip did something bad and the older boy was now considering scolding him, even though all Philip actually did was learn some verses. He tries really hard not to feel disappointed. He should be used to it by now.
“That’s the Old Testament,” Caleb finally says. Frankly, it’s ridiculous, how long it takes him to come up with that line of reasoning. “It’s no longer important, we do things differently now,” he continues. “We turn the other cheek. There’s no place for violence among Christians. Our Lord died so that there would be no more of it.”
Philip can feel his eyebrows furrow. “Is that why he said he came wielding a sword?” he asks.
Caleb throws his hands into the air, oddly indignant. “You can’t take it out of context! It just meant there would be dissent and suffering because some wouldn’t heed his words. Doesn’t mean Christians are supposed to wield that sword, Pip. Didn’t Christ scold Peter for cutting off a man’s ear in Gethsemane?”
Philip finally looks up. “Didn’t he order Simon Peter to carry that sword in the first place?” he asks, now feeling deservedly smug.
“Um.” Caleb scratches his right shin with his left foot. He tends to do that when confronted with something that confuses him, and a lot of things fall into that category. “He didn’t?” he tries.
“Luke, same chapter. A couple verses before Simon Peter smote the servant of the high priest. Ten, perhaps twenty verses back, Jesus told the disciples to bring at least two swords.”
The worms are still wriggling and making a lot of nonsensical movements. The sun is beginning to set, but this year, Autumn came early, so it starts to get cold long before it gets dark.
“Impressive, Pip,” Caleb should respond. “You study hard and it shows. Your devotion to the Lord is clear,” he should say. But instead, he lets out a long-suffering sigh, the kind he does when Philip knocks over a shelf on accident or gestures too widely and spills something. What he actually says is, “Pretty sure that was to defend others, Pip.”
Philip nods with a serious expression. “Yes, perhaps. So what you’re saying is there are cases when violence is warranted.”
Once again, Caleb doesn’t seem in the least proud of him. But then again, Caleb is a boy who is proud of you if you manage to lie yourself out of sweeping the floors, and who finds telling adults about stuff children were doing during sermon disappointing. Perhaps not all of the opinions he holds are actually worthwhile.
“Well, yes,” the boy in question says, drawing out the syllables. “But only when it’s to help someone who’s defenseless.”
“Even when it’s killing?”
“When there’s no way around it, I guess. But most of the time there’s a lot of ways around it, Pip.”
Hah! Philip thinks. Winning arguments with Caleb had always been easy, but never that easy. Either the boy is truly distracted, or Philip has already surpassed him in his knowledge.
“So what about not being allowed to kill, then?” Pip asks, though it’s not really a question. “Because it would appear like sometimes you are allowed.”
“Um, well.” Caleb heaves a sigh and finally makes himself comfortable, apparently preparing for a long conversation. He crosses his legs, carefully avoiding the worm in front of them, and then has the gall to ruffle Philip’s hair, as if Philip, who’s almost eleven, were still a child. “It doesn’t mean that life isn’t sacred. Sometimes you’re forced to kill, but only to save another life that is threatened.“ He gives Philip a pointed look. “Only then. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” Pip says, and he’s quite earnest in that. “We kill animals all the time.”
“Yes, but they’re animals!”
Philip gestures to the thing in the soil. “And this is just an animal. Not even a proper one.”
“It’s… different. I mean, obviously, it’s not the same as, you know. Killing a real person. But you are not supposed to kill for no reason. Even animals.”
Philip pulls a face. “I don’t remember you giving Obadiah this kind of a speech last week when he was chopping off a rooster’s head.”
“I said for no reason! He had a reason, he ate it with his family!” Caleb exclaims in clear exasperation. Then he stumbles over his words in a very familiar way, and for a second it’s like listening to Caleb from before they came to Gravesfield. “I mean, not the reason. Or the head. The rooster. He ate the rooster. Ugh, you know what I mean.” He shakes his empty head and covers up the confusion with a bright smile. “So do you want to tell me you’re intending to eat this?”
He points to the earthworm.
“I’m not!” Philip assures him hotly. “I don’t eat worms. They’re gross.” Only after he’s spoken up, he realizes he was being teased. He sticks out his tongue to hide the embarrassment, and it makes him feel even more childish. He decides to come back to the point he was making. “And what’s the difference, anyway? He killed it.”
“Yes, but in order to feed himself and the ones he takes care of. That’s how nature works.” The older boy makes a vague gesture. “If we’re really, really lucky, we eat the bear. But before that, the bear eats fish, and fish eat worms.” He grins slyly. “Just like you, Pip.”
Caleb nudges him, but Philip doesn’t rise to the bait this time. Mostly because the bait is a worm, and he doesn’t eat those.
He is hungry, though. The stage is creaking, Philip’s clothes are itchy, and the new mask is too heavy and uncomfortable. Nobody’s listening to him, even when he stoops to trying to yell over the crowd. They just ignore him, too busy with haggling and usury, all of their voices shrill and yet surprisingly akin to human. More than once, Philip has caught himself closing his eyes and pretending he’s back in Gravesfield. He cannot allow himself to fall prey to such illusions of normalcy. It’s crucial that he keeps his eyes open and always sees the deformity in front of him. The Lord put him here for a purpose.
But nobody’s listening, and Philip hasn’t eaten anything today. His stomach cramps painfully. Perhaps it’s a good thing that everyone is so loud because at least they don’t hear the undignified growls, though either way they would be lost in the sound the planks keep making. He’s wasted hours building that ridiculous stage, and for what? It’s not even a stage, not truly. A stage would never make such sounds whenever he shifts his weight or makes the slightest gesture. It’s creaking so loud the sound is drilling into his ears despite the pointless clatter. One child laughs at him, and its mother — if the strumpet can even be called that — yanks at one of its numerous hands, pulling it away. She probably thinks she’s doing Philip a favor. Everyone else is just avoiding his gaze, and it’s not as if he were invisible but as if everyone was politely wishing he was, like you usually do with a beggar.
He’ll need to get rid of the beard. Perhaps he just doesn’t look the part, and even Philip has to admit, the mask appears more menacing when he tucks the hairs into his collar. He resents the notion, but it’s not like it’s an impossible sacrifice to make. It’s just one slight change in appearance. But for now, Philip is hungry, unsure where he’s going to spend the night, the planks are creaking, and nobody’s listening. The Lord is testing him, this much is obvious. So did He test the apostles. So did He allow for His own Son to be mocked and nailed to wood like a message a repossession man leaves at one’s door. It was never the physical pain of our Savior that Philip considered truly terrifying, it was the jeering. When the Lord finally smites the heathen, their last realization will pertain how unjust and shameful were their taunts thrown at the Lord’s chosen servant. Philip’s not only ready to suffer those blows for now, oh no, he’s willing. They’re a testament of the Lord’s trust in him and, more importantly, of the great things to come. Philip minds not the hunger and weariness.
But the creaking, the hellish creaking is slowly driving him insane. He knocks on the wall again, and it doesn’t stop. He tries yelling, but the harlot cares not. The obscene noises her bed is making are soon muted by breathy noises that are even more obscene and remind Philip of cats in heat. The most humiliating part is Philip’s body apparently finding enjoyment in those sounds. She’s unmarried, and Philip has tried to talk some sense into her, but first she laughed at him, and then threatened she’d find a new tenant. It doesn’t seem that likely, the room Philip is renting is small, windowless, and the sleeping mat is infested with vermin. Calling it a room is far too generous.
He doesn’t mind, he’s lived in much worse conditions in the past decade. The sounds coming from the other room, however, are atrocious, and the walls are paper-thin. He wonders briefly if the money he gives the adulteress means he’s enabling her to sin, which would make Philip responsible for her damnation. But surely he’s not. Otherwise, his living in this realm would make him as bad as its inhabitants, and that would be preposterous. It would. As long as he doesn’t accept evil meekly, he’s not soiled by it. There is nothing from without a man, that entering into him can defile him. When the creaking finally stops, it’s almost morning.
The silence lasts for only a moment. Caleb makes a movement as if he were to hug Philip, or perhaps just put a hand on Philip’s shoulder, but then he thinks better of it.
“So there are clearly some creatures whose killing is not a sin,” Philip says stubbornly.
To his credit, Caleb seems to ponder that for a moment. “Not all killing is the same, Pip. Killing an animal to eat it serves a purpose. It allows others not to starve. That’s how nature works.” Now the older boy is just repeating himself, and that’s embarrassing to watch. “That’s how the Lord created it.”
Philip prods at one of the worm’s halves, and it sort of curls around the end of the stick.
“They wouldn’t have starved,” he mutters.
“What?”
“If they didn’t eat that rooster. They wouldn’t have starved, they could have eaten more bread. They had bread.”
“Bread isn’t enough, Pip.”
“I know,” Philip sighs. “Man shall not live by bread alone.”
Caleb stares at him for a second too long. “... yes,” he says eventually. “But in this case, it’s quite literal.”
“It’s always literal,” Philip insists, addressing the ground, not his brother.
“But this time, it’s even more literal,” Caleb repeats with emphasis. “Do you remember that winter when we had nothing but stale bread? And our teeth felt funny, and I lost two of mine?”
“We had groats, too.”
“Alright, so let’s say nothing but bread and groats.”
“And then I found the dried apples in the attic,” Philip reminds him.
“And then you found the dried apples, yes,” Caleb says with a gesture that is probably supposed to mean the fact is inconsequential. “But let’s assume you didn’t. Imagine what it would have been like if you didn’t, and all we had was bread. Or can you imagine what it would have been like if spring didn’t come?”
“Then we would have run out of bread,” Philip informs him because that’s a really stupid question to ask.
“Uh, fair point,” the older boy admits. A year ago, he would have done so with a sheepish grin. “Very well. So, imagine what it would feel like if we didn’t run out of bread but we weren’t allowed to eat anything else. No apples, fresh or dried. No ham, ever, not even on Easter. Just bread. It would be terrible, wouldn’t it?
“Mhm.” Philip nods solemnly, but mostly because that’s expected of him. He can imagine quite a lot more terrible things with ease.
“Soon, we would have no teeth. And then we wouldn’t be able to even eat bread because we couldn’t chew the crust.”
“We could just get rid of the crust,” Philip points out.
“But that’s the best part of bread!”
Philip can’t argue with that.
“See?” Caleb smiles. “We couldn’t survive on bread alone. We need to eat, just like birds and fish do. Killing to live is different than killing for no reason. Nature doesn’t kill for no reason.”
Philip really doubts that. He thinks back to Goody’s fat cat he saw playing with a vole the other day, and how the vole was left afterwards, very much dead but definitely uneaten.
“The Lord told us to kill animals and not eat them numerous times,” he says instead. “He demanded burnt offerings.” He closes his eyes, waiting for the words to come to him, but he doesn’t have to wait too long. “In the place where they kill the burnt offering shall they kill the trespass offering: and the blood thereof shall he sprinkle round about upon the altar,” he intones.
“How do you—“
“And he shall offer of it all the fat thereof; the rump, and the fat that covereth the inwards,” Philip carries on. “And the two kidneys, and the fat that is on them—”
“That was the Old Testament and those were special cases,” Caleb interjects a bit too loudly than is necessary. “And please stop doing that, whatever that is. It’s unnerving. Nobody just remembers things off the top of their head like that. Especially… this kind of thing.”
He shifts awkwardly under Philip’s stare.
“Obviously, you can do it with me,” he adds, and then he grimaces. “But be careful around other folk. They might not like it, you know.”
Oh, Philip knows. It seems like they don’t like anything Philip does, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that memorizing parts of the Good Book is also something they could hold against him. Still, he feels a pang of fresh disappointment and he needs to really focus in order not to sniffle. He should have put the mask on, then it wouldn’t matter and no one could see the snot running down his upper lip.
Both the Emperor and the Golden Guard wear a mask, and thus, each of them has two bodies. One of these is prone to failure, and yes, John, even death. Such things happen, such things have already happened. That is why there’s a mask. There’s continuity and a whole different kind of life in the mask, and that life is eternal.
My, my, the Golden Guard’s situation is much better than the Emperor’s, if you think about it. At times I do envy you, Samuel, for we already know that the Golden Guard is, in fact, quite immortal. The flesh under the mask may change, but the Golden Guard lives on. If anyone tells you that you resemble your predecessor, they will never actually mean their face. What they will recognize will be the majesty of the Emperor. It never changes, and you, Hunter, you are its extension.
“Besides,” Caleb adds, his voice unnaturally cheerful, “those were animals that already belonged to him.”
“Don’t all of them?” Philip deadpans.
Caleb gives him an odd look, and he’s been doing that so often that it’s no longer odd. “They do. In a broader sense, just like we belong to him. But Timothy’s cow is still his cow.” Philip opens his mouth to protest, but Caleb is quicker, adding, “And also God’s.”
“He demanded Isaac,” Philip decides to say, going back to the subject he feels most expert at. Animals are not that interesting, after all.
“Yes, but he didn’t let Abraham actually follow through. Haven’t you been listening to a word of what Father Barrowe’s been saying? It was a test of Abraham’s faith. The Lord is kind. He never wanted nor demanded a child’s blood.”
Now, that causes offense. Philip has been listening. He always listens, and he doesn’t even kick his legs in the pew anymore. He clearly listens much more closely than Caleb does.
And so, “What about Babylon?” he asks.
“What about it?”
“Erm.” He gives his brother an uncertain look, and Caleb nods with a sigh, gesturing at him to carry on. Thus, Philip recites, “Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished.”
He’s answered by silence. Caleb looks pale in the dimming light.
“That’s from Isaiah,” Philip adds. “And that’s not all! Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones. Psalm one hundred thirty seven.” He throws his hands into the air. “A psalm, Caleb, a psalm!”
Caleb frowns at him something that resembles disapproval, which is just not fair. He should be praising his little brother. At least one man in the family is learning Lord God’s Word properly.
“They shall fall by the sword,” Philip tries again. “Their infants shall be dashed in pieces, and their women with child shall be ripped up.”
He watches Caleb’s expression grow more and more uncomfortable, as if the older boy had eaten something that didn’t sit well with his stomach. But he never does. Caleb is famous for his gluttony, he’s able to eat absolutely anything and in any quantities. And then he usually asks for seconds.
“Hosea,” Philip adds, as if there was any need for him to explain himself.
Something akin to relief suddenly appears on Caleb’s face. “Ah-ah-hah!” He waggles his finger. “Old Testament! All of that comes from the Old Testament. Christ changed it, we’ve already been through that!”
Philip makes a face at that, but concedes. He’s not convinced Caleb is right, but it is indeed something Father Barrowe had said at least once.
“So... not now, no longer. But ere Christ, there were those you were allowed to kill,” he proposes. “Like children in Samaria, or Babylon, or like Isaac—“
“Abraham wasn’t allowed to kill Isaac,” Caleb cuts in.
“Mhm,” Philip grunts in acknowledgement, but he’s ready with another example. “So Jephthah’s daughter. He did with her according to his vow which he had vowed, remember? And Job’s children? Seven sons and three daughters, all dead.”
“Satan did that, Pip.”
“But with Lord God’s permission,” Philip insists. “There clearly were those that were allowed to be killed. God wanted Jews to kill them.”
“We’re not Jews, Pip,” Caleb protests. “We believe in our Savior and we didn’t kill him.”
“There is neither Jew nor Greek,” Pip reminds him.
Caleb raises his hands, palms facing Philip in a gesture of helpless surrender and the creaking finally comes to a halt. Thank goodness, Philip thought the journey would never end. Perhaps one day he’s going to be able to afford a proper cart with wheels that don’t make the sound of a hundred tortured souls with every turn, but that day appears more and more distant. He looks at the ram tied up at the back, muzzled and with tears streaming down its cheeks. It’s no longer making any attempts at kicking him away, it just looks pleading, trying to appear human. It managed do fool Philip for quite some time.
Philip was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this. He thought this time he got things right. In his hubris, he was certain the Lord was guiding his hand — otherwise how could he make his brother out of piece of bone and some scraps? Philip clearly needs to pray more and be more attentive, so that he avoids mistakes like that in the future. But now, now the Lord finally is guiding his hand with a knife, allowing Philip to rectify his foolish mistake.
He’s not the one to question God’s orders, but, given how difficult the galdorstone is to obtain, he does sigh heavily at the realization that the new cart will have to wait.
It takes Philip a couple more years to realize the Lord wasn’t asking for such faulty offerings and Philip’s been foolishly wasting resources that might still have their use. Not all of them, of course. Dealing with the abdominal cavity is a complete waste of time, and after a couple attempts, Philip has decided not to complicate things unnecessarily. The chore is unpleasant enough. He focuses on the important parts, and that way, the whole affair becomes at least a bit more bearable. Now the task requires some stamina, yes, but it’s not that difficult in itself. Acting in a systematic manner is the key.
The first thing to think of (and something that Philip, regretfully, tends to forget) is placing a brick under the shoulders. Making the incision is way easier like this, when the spine arches backwards and the chest is automatically pushed upwards. You start at the tip of the shoulder (Philip prefers the left one, but it’s not that important). The knife is supposed to draw a semi-circle across the chest, reaching the second or even the third rib, and then curling back towards the right shoulder. Or the left one, if that’s more convenient. As previously stated, it doesn’t really matter.
Actually getting into the cavity is not as easy as making the first incisions, and now shears are required to cut through the ribs. Philip has learned the hard way how damaging to the insides of the cavity trying to cut through the sternum can be. If the galdorstone is to be salvaged, you have to get to it in situ. Sternum must be removed in one piece, there’s just no way around it. Avoiding damage to the lungs is always a welcome development, though they’re much easier to come by. If the shears scrape them and they’re no longer usable, it’s a loss Philip is prepared to accept. He removes the organs in an orderly manner, handling the precious ones he needs with utmost delicacy.
The bleeding is minimal, if any. With the chest flaps closed, the carcass just lies there, and the brick looks like a misplaced pillow. As long as Philip doesn’t examine the contents of the bucket next to the table, it reminds him of a chamber pot by a bed.
Back when he was a lad, he used to wait for the Lord to call him when laid to sleep. He did hear his name called quite often, and so each time he’d jump to his feet and answer readily, speak; for thy servant heareth. And yet, it was never the Lord who called him, always someone else. Mrs. Gurnall needed him to fetch something; Mr. Gurnall was angry, having learned Philip was once again seen letting the devil speak through him and writing with his left hand. At times it was just Caleb wishing to share a story he hadn’t managed to convey before the lamp went out. Most often those were stories that should be told in darkness, if at all. Eventually, Philip’s resigned himself to the sad realization that if the Lord decides to call upon him, it’s going to be less obvious, or at least less audible. It’s not like nowadays anyone else even knows his true name. Still, Philip remains alert and listens, though it is becoming increasingly difficult.
It’s odd, but it’s the smallest sounds that make Philip’s skin crawl the most. Oh no, he does not enjoy the ruckus, the drunken songs of demons who find joy in their degeneracy. At least in Gravesfield, if one was this weak and miserable, they had enough decency to indulge in their filthy habits in privacy and feel rightly ashamed. Philip doesn’t like the booming sounds of marching feet when his regiments change locations, doesn’t like them chanting, even though he himself came up with the songs about their devotion to a false god. He could do without the carnage, the explosions, the rattle of siege and collapsing walls, and especially without the ungodly sounds unicorns make when their middles are torn open and their hooves get tangled up in the guts falling out of them. But the little sounds, the tapping of water when it’s supposed to be quiet, the scratching of a bark beetle in the wardrobe, the creaking of the tent pole in the wind on the night ere the decisive battle… that, somehow, tests Philip’s patience in more ways than all the peal, clangor and screaming. Eventually, he makes the grimwalker hold the pole so that it remains fixed and Philip’s allowed the momentary reprieve of silence.
He’s obedient, respectful and doesn’t ask questions, and so he spends the entire night just holding up the rod — not unlike Moses at Rephidim, probably aware that if he puts his hands down, Philip will start losing his battle against insomnia. It’s a shame that by the time the sun sets on the morrow, there are no remains to salvage from the muddy pit that is left in place of yesterday’s pasture. Everything reeks of blood, and the stench is going to grow far worse if they remain here. Philip, however, sets an example. The soldiers watch in awe as their general, the master tactician responsible for today’s victory, the emissary of the Titan himself, walks among the corpses. The dark rusty stain travels up the fabric as the cloak he’s dragging behind him becomes more and more drenched.
He finds what he was looking for in the Northern corner of the field. Those who were stuck here have been trampled beyond recognition, and it’s difficult to say whether the bones that crack under Philip’s heels belong to witches, their steeds, or the dragon that was still burning when it fell down here. When Philip sees the glimmer, he doesn’t order any of his adjutants to drop to their knees in the muck and part the substance covering the area. He doesn’t draw a spell circle either, fishing out the mask with his own hands. This moment requires gravitas, and so he lingers there for an appropriate amount of time, his head hung low, counting under his breath. When he stands up, stained, bloody and yet undefeated, he shows the piece of metal to everyone. He makes a speech, he doesn’t remember what it was exactly, but it sounded profound. It doesn’t really matter, most of the witnesses are not going to survive the next month, and there are already new recruits lining up to take their place. Oure Titan is a defense and towre, a good armoure and good weapon, they chant. Before the sun rises, they’ve already marched out. The Golden Guard lives on, Philip told them. That part he remembers, though it’s really difficult to forget something rehearsed that often.
You see, Thomas, as long as you’re wearing the mask, you are not just some homeless youngster I took pity on, oh no. You’re the Golden Guard. When you put on the mask, Jonas, you stop being a foundling, you’re the Empire personified. Never allow people to see you without it. All they’d see would be a weakling, my sister’s ungrateful grandson who killed his own mother while she was giving birth to him. And you could be so much more, Isaac. You can by my might and my wrath, my benevolence and righteousness. When you put on the mask, Hunter, you’re not my nephew. You’re no longer nine. You’re hundreds years old, you’re the Titan’s will made manifest. Don’t hunch, stand proud and keep your head up, you have a legacy to live up to. Lower your gaze when I’m talking to you, Uriah, this is disrespectful.
The Golden Guard is larger than you or your predecessor, Nathan, my dear boy, just like the Empire and the Titan’s will are larger than me. Have you ever wondered why the throne room is located underneath the Titan’s heart? Have you ever noticed how everything in this realm is alive? The Titan never tires and never dies, just like the Empire. Just like our obligations to it. If you take off your mask, you’re no longer mine. You shed the Empire’s authority. So tell me, Hunter, lad, who’s going to protect you then?
The helmet Kikimora brought back looked like it’s been quite literally chewed and spat out. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened. This realm is dangerous and full of horrid creatures, and my authority can’t protect you from these if you’re not willing to take the cover it offers you. Bap, bap, bap! No, Hunter. If you’re reckless enough to just lose your mask, it means you don’t respect it and what it stands for. There’s no excuse for what you did, and you really should have known better. Without the mask, you’re no longer the Golden Guard, and the reports from the Latissa precinct suggest you’ve had a great opportunity to learn that. It sounds like you had a truly educational experience, I might add. The scouts said they were bugged by a child, for Titan’s sake!
You have to be the Golden Guard. What are you otherwise? A child, a powerless cripple. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’ve managed to survive without the mask last night, and I doubt you can repeat that feat. As for the results of your mission, well. I’m disappointed, but — and it pains me to say it, Hunter — not surprised. I need palismen to survive. This is not about me, this is about my mission from the Titan. Who do you suppose can fulfill His wishes and lead the Empire in my stead?
Yes, I thought so. And yet. You return with nothing. Is that the thanks I get for taking you in? Is that how you repay me for carrying you out of a burning building on my own back, Daniel? Pray tell, Titus, do you consider your performance even remotely adequate, given how much I have sacrificed to heal you from the plague? I’m beginning to wonder whether it was worth it.