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A husk is a perfect thing devoid of emotions.
It cannot think, it cannot express itself through feeling, it cannot have an opinion.
It shares a mind with others, a mind that is so vast and glorious that it can not even begin to comprehend - if it had a consciousness to start with.
However, this lack of… individuality does not mean it could not feel.
A husk has five senses.
Touch, from its porcelain-like texture, though it can withstand the harshest blow and stay intact as if it has never been touched in the first place. Hearing, from those pores all over its body. Taste and smell… It does not have a mouth or a nose but it can still know the definition of ‘sweet’ or ‘bitter’. If one presents food to its body, a simple touch to its shared mind would be enough to extricate the necessary information to know if it is ‘savoury’, ‘dull’ or even ‘sour’. And then, sight, from the holes dug inside what supposedly is a grotesque mimicry of a head.
All those pieces of information from those different senses: the soft dampness of the dirt and corrupted grass around its fingers, the wind scratching and unforgivably cold around its frozen body and the howling wind as only sound so high up in the skies. All those facts are stored inside its body and shared within the beehive mind to which it belongs.
It can not process or feel those inputs but they are stored somewhere anyway.
The husk continues to do so as long as the collective mind survives. And in their white, indestructible, perfect bodies, one of which can even resist the end of time, the husk will keep on surviving for an undescriptive amount of time.
Simply there, existing, unfeeling.
.
One day, it registers movement.
Its head immediately catalogues the figure slowly approaching the centre of the broken tower, where another broken husk kneels.
It records the blue cape bellowing with the harsh wind, sides flapping against the figure’s thighs. It files away the soft thunk of the wooden cane tapping against some of the remaining metallic parts of the floor. However, with time passing indiscriminately so, it has become very scarce, the majority of it now covered with luscious grass and purple organic matter. It notes how the figure walks unhurriedly to the middle of the area before stopping right beside the kneeling husk.
It can not see his face but it calculated it could not be human.
Their pursuit of merging everyone has long passed once everything had been fusionned together. There are no more imperfections left, the beehive mind continuously whispers in its mind.
Anyway, the husk can not move anymore, it has not been able to for a long time. Its limbs have been cut off from the explosion of raw power from the corrupted hammer during their final confrontation. Now, the husk lies, half kneeling on a destroyed leg, half buried in vegetation and forever frozen in time.
The weapon has long lost its meaning when the hammer was corroded by organic matter. The husk has seen when its sparks of blue light had died down and the last human’s breath had left his lungs, limbs forever entrapped in porcelain texture. Encasing him forever to preserve his weak, fragile, bleeding human body until he was merged like everything else.
It looks now as the hooded man looks down upon the kneeling husk.
Within the stillness of the place, he stands so silently that the husk would have shut down in disinterest if it had been able to. However, it can feel a pull inside its empty vessel, as if someone is pulling at the strings stuck to its limbs of consciousness and forcing them all awake, aware but unable to do anything but be.
The husk could only see its back, hunched and leaning on its staff for a long time.
.
The concept of time is not something that matters anymore in this world.
If the figure stood there for several minutes, unmoving, or several hours, or several days, the husk would not be able to know. There is no sun or night anymore. All that remains is the wind, the grass and the figure that stands unflinching.
.
At some point, the figure kneels, the soft thunk of his staff reverberating in the void around him.
It bends his knees and his back seems to ply under an invisible weight. The husk knows it, the beehive mind is as calm as ever and no influx of information informs it of any sort of gravity change.
The figure is simply bent over, reminiscent of a supplicant begging for mercy.
It does not move anymore. His head is hung low, hair whipping at his face but he does not seem to care, simply looking at the floor, his two hands gripping his hovering staff.
.
In this frozen place, surrounded by a perpetual whirlwind of nothingness where even the organic grass does not move with the wind, only the blue cape the figure adorns moves almost violently. Its flaps hit his sides but he did not seem to care, content with kneeling alongside that broken, imperfect husk.
.
At some point, the figure moves.
It straightens again with a fluidity that rivals any vessel in this discarded wasteland and slowly, it begins to approach the kneeling husk again. It walks silently, bare feet leaving a trail of humidity where the purple grass is crushed. Stretching a hand, a hand comes out of the confines of his cloak and reaches to touch - or to destroy…? - but suddenly, the hand shakes, spasms and as graceful as it has drawn up, it falls on his side, almost brushing against the white-milk smoothness of the husk’s skin, but just barely.
From deep inside the beehive mind, there is a spark. A tiny little speck of movement within the abysmal infinity of minds.
It dies as soon as it appears.
The figure suddenly raises his head, so abruptly that it could have broken his neck had he been anything but. From this angle, the husk can catalogue his frantic kaleidoscopic eyes, lips trembling almost imperceptibly, frantically searching for something that the husk knows is nowhere to be reached. This world has been this way for a long time, it has been created to be as such.
The cloaked silhouette is aware of that fact as well, the husk knows it.
He falls to his knees again but this time, it is as if someone has pulled on his arms to bring him down, or if someone has kicked him on the back of his knees and sent him sprawling on the ground in a mess of limbs.
His staff clunks to the side and rolls off. From the sound the husk can hear, the wooden stick has fallen off the edge and tumbled into the void. A small moment afterwards, the husk knows it has hit the ground below in a cacophony of echoing sound. Countless eyes follow the cane rolling away, farther and farther away until it tumbles down again inside a crack, rattling down its way within the heart of the world.
The figure, up above, does not care about his staff.
As if his strings have been cut off, his arms lie limp on his knees and he almost seems to sag to the side, against the hollow husk covered in grass.
He recoils like he has been electrocuted even before touching it and straightens himself with difficulty.
He does not move again.
.
Time passes slowly.
The grass continues to grow. It never fades nor does it disappear, it only continues to advance towards the centre plane. When it reaches the kneeling husk, it begins to climb the misshapen vessel, eating it away.
The figure only picks the largest leaves and stems delicately between his pointer finger and thumb and gently pulls them off the husk. It leaves a purplish glow to the deformed vessel.
It continues to grow.
And he continues to pick the grass off the empty husk.
.
At some point, the figure has moved from his kneeling position to a sitting one, his cape now bundled up around himself in makeshift clothes that the husk files away from a wandering mind, so long ago.
.
The husk is there to watch when the figure stands up as gracefully as ever and sheds away his blue cloth which has begun to be eaten away by organic matter. Holes and vegetation have started to make their home within the weaved linen and the figure has to rip a few pieces off to prevent it from advancing too rapidly.
It is, however, a losing battle.
After a few attempts, only a small piece remains, barely enough to cover the man’s legs as he kneels close to the husk.
He thumbs at the piece of cloth for a long time before slowly lifting his head towards the other vessel and finally standing up, the faded blue tissue grasped in his fists.
His hands are still a pinkish hue and the husk, if not half buried into the ground, would have jumped onto the figure, a logical need to merge deeply ingrained in their mind. However, it does not. It is partially also because it acknowledges the figure’s non-humanity; it is not something to be added to the beehive mind. It will not.
The husk merely watches as the man looks once more at the pieces of his cape in his hands and takes a corner in each hand, before slowly approaching the kneeling husk from behind and gently, almost like a butterfly kiss, puts the cloaks on its disjointed shoulders.
As soon as it lands, grass spurs on and grasps at the edges of the tissue, eating it away.
The man does not try to pry the piece of cloth off but instead, he seems to press his hands against the hard surface of the destroyed vessel, gripping at a hole on its sides as if they were his last line of stability. His shoulders are shaking and his knees are barely holding him upright. His face is so close to the husk's face it could almost hear his cells trembling underneath that pinkish skin and violet metal.
He does not fall over.
Instead, he abruptly recoils as soon as the last piece of tissue falls off the husk, the figure’s hands flying away from the white vessel as if afraid.
Then, like nothing happened, the man kneels impossibly closer to the white, perforated, imperfect vessel and does not move again.
.
At some point, the staff makes its reappearance in the man’s hands in a ripple of reality and a sound that should have never been.
He holds it with wide eyes and a half-opened mouth as if it was the first time he had seen this staff.
“Incredible,” he murmurs and holds the wooden staff against his chest in a mimicry of a loving embrace. “Incredible…” he says again.
.
Sometimes, the man disappears now.
Each time, reality rips itself apart. The sky and the air surrounding the centre plane glitch in indescribable colours and the husk’s awareness immediately shuts down, each of their mind mercilessly ripped apart from their galaxy of stars.
.
The husk returns to awareness again, lifting its head towards the plane centre when the same figure appears in a rippling shard of reality that opens itself from the inside out. He now holds himself a bit straighter as he almost runs to the kneeling husk before falling to his knees in a rush. He now has a white cloak and clutches at it with such force it would have ripped the tissue apart if not for the gentle touch that sporadically smoothes the wrinkles out.
Instantly, purplish and greenish waste clings to his hood and shoulders, spreading at a maddening pace.
The man does not care.
His eyes wear a manic glint and his grin stretches his lips in a rictus.
Somewhere inside their shared mind, something recoils and worries.
The reaction is immediate: the man’s hand shoots out and he almost covers the husk’s limbs clutching its weapon but stops a millimetre away from touching the white, porcelain and corrupted skin.
“I have found a way…,” the man whispers instead, words rushing out and raspy of disuse.
It travels to the damaged husk’s head and their mind catalogues his words away, stored inside their shared abyss. It echoes without meaning inside the intricate galaxy of wills smashed and merged together until it becomes unrecognisable. It registers the words but what hides beneath each letter has disappeared, lost and never to return.
The man does not seem to mind, he simply hangs his head low once again but his expression is not tight anymore nor heavy with an emotion the husk has long since discarded.
“I will make it right, I promise you,” he says.
He abruptly stands up and with the cover of one sleeve, presses a hand on the husk’s face, on what used to be a cheek perhaps. The top has completely exploded, spikes of golden hardened tissue creating a mimicry of a head. It is proof of the once-living being that refused its inevitable fate.
It now lay destroyed, a proof of his inevitable fate.
The man has already disappeared in a popping sound, almost jumping head first into the shining hole he has created.
Somewhere, something whispers, I know...
The husk shuts down.
.
“Did you know, somewhere, we have become renowned doctors?”
.
“You despise that painting. I know you hate the colours and you think it doesn’t fit with the living room, but you still display it there for everyone to see. Because he made it.”
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“I am sure even in his madness, he still mourns you. He still goes to your tomb to place a few flowers every year. He reminds me…”
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“Each time, you look at him with such adoration. Would you still look at me if you knew already? You always look at him so adoringly, so wholly…”
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“He did not make it. Yet, you regret nothing, not even meeting him. Would you feel the same? Do you?”
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“This is your fault. Everything is your fault… If you had not, we could have…”
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“You almost managed this time. I know you are stubborn, but this time it ‘takes the cake’, as you love to say. Even if you never liked sweets that much.”
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“You always answer him so truthfully. Tell me then, why are you never answering me? Do you hate me so much? I try, I try so hard it hurts. You are always at his side, always, so why not me? Is it my punishment? What have I done? All I wanted was to be seen, to be someone stronger… Is it not a human thing to seek and yearn for something they do not have? It is not in human nature to desire?”
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“Why did he jump?”
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“They have decided to abandon everything. They are now outside Piltover and they want to travel the world, even if it kills them. How foolish and yet… I feel almost jealous. Would you have liked that too? To search through the stars… Together…?”
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“Why won’t you talk to me?”
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“It is ironic how even through death, he manages to reason with him. But then, each time he meets another you, they are doomed to sadness and endless hurt. Sometimes I wonder if I should have ever met you. And yet, each time, it is always about you. You, you, you, and you. Always you.”
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“Please, I can’t do this all alone. I don’t know how.”
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“Jayce…”
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The husk knows immediately when there is an intruder. A living being, walking, breathing, thinking so loudly it is almost deafening and dragging himself through the ruins of a past world. It knows others have already awakened, those that are closer to that human. He needs to be merged, he cannot remain alone, he needs to be added and be together. He needs-
Suddenly, the husk spasms, its intersected mind is violently crushed, bending to a more powerful will. The beehive mind is so malleable only a simple squeeze is enough to shut down all the husks, their corpses only standing up through taunted strings.
The human continues to walk.
This singular individual, in this wasted land where everyone resides.
He falls through a crack and the husk looks at it through the beehive mind, he looks through their countless eyes and watches. Their mind can feel the human’s pain and powered by an ancient, superior aura, it wishes to soothe that pain away. To remove the hurt and to mend the skin and bones. To cajole and to seek warmth and…
The husk watches and waits, strings loose yet they guide each of its movements.
It does not come down to help and instead, lets the human fester away in this pit.
Up above, the cloaked figure is seated next to the kneeling husk. Bundled up in his coat, he presses his side against the hard and rough back of the white vessel. It watches and waits. He waits. It hopes.
.
When a hand touches its shoulder, there is an explosion in their mind.
They acknowledge it.
They feel it.
It pushes and pushes, and pushes. It wishes to escape from the goo that has become their bounded mind. With a stretched hand, it fights and resists, it moves and speeds away.
It knows this feeling; it is heat, it is warm and sweet, it is burning hot and pleasant.
The husk senses the hand, the digits and the warm skin on his shoulder. He knows this feeling and he understands it is time. And though he cannot answer to the figure’s pleas, he knows. Oh, he knows and he wishes.
His mind is shattered beyond reparation and yet, he fights again, and again, and again.
He wishes to help, he wishes to respond, he wants to answer to the man’s touch.
Yet, he is so weak…
All he can do is focus on his broken body and one by one, excruciatingly slow, painfully so, he releases the fingers around his hammer.
That damned weapon, that cursed thing.
It had signalled the beginning of the end.
But deep within his mind, he can feel a presence, pressing him and begging him that is is the one. It is their only way. Please, please, please, oh please, if that hammer was the beginning of their doom, then it can always be the beginning of something else.
Please, Jayce…
.
And what can he do, other than…
I trust you.
.
.
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