Chapter Text
The Salt of Solidarity wandered the streets of the Salt Barren. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going, or why he was even moving. He knew he had duties to fulfil, troops to command, but a strange fog had long settled over his heart. The few soldiers off duty greeted him, only to be met with curt nods and absent responses, his billowing cape more emotive than its owner.
The atmosphere around him felt cold, wrong, still—tranquil in all the wrong ways. His knights knew something was amiss, but none dared approach him with their worries. Perhaps out of loyalty to his commands, or fear of disapproval.
Yes, he was all too aware of his knights’ overwhelming compassion. He used to pride himself on their ability to aid those in peril. But at this moment, he knew that he, of all people, deserved none of their charity.
He barely knew what constituted humanity. The Salt of Solidarity was a Virtue, a Divine creature created with one sole purpose: a vessel born from magic and Gods. So did he count? Was he human? Did he fall under the blanket of humanity? Or was he merely an object, a tool for the Witches, a puppet?
A tool was a burden without any purpose. Something to be disposed of. So was he that?
He didn’t know. A part of him never wanted to know; never wanted to face the reality of his existence. But a nagging, persistent part of his soul needed to know. Needed closure. He needed clarity.
He hated it. He hated the very existence of the thought.
He shouldn’t question that which was not meant to be questioned. That which was not meant to be known. He should not question those who held godly powers—those who were protectors.
But hadn’t he, long ago? Hadn’t he doubted them, doubted their decisions? He had doubted the way he was born, how he was like the Sugar of Happiness and the Flour of Volition, and how he wished to be like the Herald of Change and the Fount of Knowledge. And had he not acted on those very wishes, fulfilling them? Through that, his title had shifted from Lady to Lord, the memory of his past identity fading into nothingness.
If that was possible, what else was?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he even wanted to know.
He was spiraling. His thoughts looped endlessly, selfish and greedy in their persistence. He shouldn’t think so much about himself.
The Salt of Solidarity forced himself to focus on the simple act of moving one foot in front of the other.
But inevitably, like many other displeasures, the thoughts persisted. And so, he questioned more.
—
He now knew where he had been heading: a small, secluded clearing beside an outlook tower. It was peaceful, the noise of the community fading into the soft sounds of nature.
And he had found many other answers. For one, he had decided that he should not be considered human. The Salt of Solidarity had pondered long and hard, and concluded that to be human, one must be alive. And to be alive, one must be able to die. A Virtue was gifted the curse of immortality. The very Soul that bestowed him with strength kept him alive—kept his blood flowing, his heart beating, his mind sharp.
To many, it was a blessing. To be immortal must be wonderful. To know you would never pass must be amazing. The common consensus was that immortality was precious, as was life.
At first, he agreed. He believed that with his never‑ending life, he would always uphold the stability of humankind, ensure all individuals were safe, help the tormented and downtrodden.
The other Virtues had agreed with him. He thought they still did, but when silence greeted his letters, he realized they had let go of his solidarity. They agreed his Virtue was no longer important—that his knights were far greater than he could ever be.
They agreed that his immortality was no gift, just the refusal of an ending for a wretched soul.
And their silence was louder than any beratement.
It pained him. They no longer stood by him, instead furthering their own domains of Knowledge, Change, Happiness, and Volition. They chose not to stand with him, but to leave him, as he was just slowing them down.
He supposed it was justified. Who would want to stand with him? Who would stand by someone who doubted the Witches’ magic? It would be useless to offer him remorse.
When the Witches made him, did they intend to create a living, breathing being or an emissary? A human, or a machine? He kept choosing one, then the other, flipping between narratives endlessly.
A human lived and died, but he only continued. So what did that make him?
He was a coward, that was certain. A useless shell of a mission, a failure with no more use to the world. If his fellow Virtues no longer felt the need to stand with him, and if he no longer felt his Divine Mission was his own, then he had no purpose. His knights were far more useful than he could ever be. They had more strength, better stability, and sheer numbers that created more peace than he alone ever could.
So he was useless, because he did not meet the criteria for someone who was living. His life, however endless, had lost its momentum long ago. His body had rotted decades ago; he was just a mind entombed in a puppet. A puppet with a mind, flawed, broken, contradicting.
He was as good as dead already. A corpse never given permission to die. A corpse who never got to stop moving. A corpse who never knew what it was meant to do next. A story without an ending.
So would it hurt to test his theory? He was not needed. He served no purpose. His existence would no longer help anyone. There was no harm in his experiment, for he no longer even knew how to exist.
Because a human should know how to live. And he didn’t.
—
The thought of death taunted the Salt of Solidarity for three more gruelling months. He still heard nothing from the four Virtues, and his knights had grown far more independent than he ever expected. He was proud of them, yes, but his heart yearned for purpose. Once, his general, Calm Kala Namak Knight, addressed him, and he could not find the heart to answer her. It was not out of malice, nor apathy. It was a weakness, a time of turmoil when clarity should have remained. He was sickeningly tainted: tainted by doubt, by longing, by agency, by the existence of his own mind. He was no longer able to pay attention to his surroundings.
He was selfish.
A greedy, undeserving being.
Abhorrent.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew death was the only tangible escape. The only embrace he could hope for now, and he needed it. He felt as though his soul would shatter without death’s sweet release.
Death was the only choice left for him. For if he could not die, he would have to face the reality that he was never alive to begin with.
Was it selfish to try? Maybe.
Did he care? Yes.
Did he have any other choice? No.
And so, in a daze, he walked once more. He passed statues of knights he did not recognize, memorials to people he was no longer connected with.
He climbed the tallest tower he could find: the watchtower he had sat beneath months before. His mind hazy, the Salt of Solidarity approached the edge. Hesitant at first, he braced himself. He dangled a foot out, feeling the ground leave him, feeling the fleeting sting of apprehension.
His heart beat rhythmically, taunting him with false hopes. The wind beat around him, urging him toward the fall. He heard the faint sound of metal meeting metal as his knights trained. Such valiant people they were. He hoped they would not mourn a creature like him. They deserved a leader, not a hollow thing and a title.
But he knew he should not feel such worries. It was unbecoming of him, and he was supposed to be strong. And so he let himself fall.
For a moment, he almost felt free. He wanted to reach for it, to claim that feeling for himself.
His vision blurred, the world tilting before his gaze. One could say it was almost exhilarating, he mused, to anticipate his head cracking open, his bones breaking, his body landing with a bang, only for the everlasting silence of death to follow.
He wondered if it would be painful. He had felt much pain, but horribly, he hoped it would be peaceful. Selfish.
His cape billowed behind him. Oddly, it reminded him of an angel’s wings, the kind seen in beautiful paintings. But that was a selfish thought; to compare himself to a Divine creature was foolish, greedy, and he didn’t get to want -
He hit the ground all too suddenly. He landed on his back, his breath momentarily knocked out of him. And he lay there, staring up at the blue sky above.
Staring through eyes that were undoubtedly alive.
Disappointment flickered through him, which he quickly brushed away. He wasn’t meant to serve himself, only others.
Faintly, he heard footsteps approaching, and the meek voice of someone asking if he was okay.
“Did you trip, Lord Commander? Do you need help getting up?” the knight asked.
“No, I do not need help. I should not want something; I should not burden you with my ailments,” he wanted to say. But he did not. Instead, he sat up, calmly brushing their hand aside.
“Do not worry. There is no need for fear. I merely slipped. Please, go along now.”
And with that, they were gone. The last semblance of solidarity he had felt.
He wept in the tower’s shadow, the only place left where even his failure could be hidden. For he could not even die correctly, yet alone live.