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V. Stoic
Gelasius, in clear contrast with his sister, spoke boldly and meaningfully, never losing a single word to obscurity. He repositioned himself on the warm couch, sitting straight up, distancing the spine of his back from the couch. He steeled himself and hardened his voice until he was as sturdy as the light armor he wore. He did not look at the others, preferring instead to maintain eye contact solely with Atlas, gorging deeply into the two gateways to the Purple Man's soul.
"The south was a very different experience for the three of us. We worked very closely with the leaders. London really did have many friends there. They got us close to the leaders there and over time we earned their trust. We learned a lot of details, most of which Dinos has already shared."
Gelasius paused, swallowing the balmy air around him. With a face growing ever more intense and fear-stricken, he pulled in a great deal of saliva down his hoarse throat. The room grew nervous with him. They were all in confusion by what he wanted to say.
"I think this could be an extinction event. Truly. None of this is an accident. The Dakini does not want to influence humanity, take over our governments. It is all petty to them. I believe, and I have given this a lot of thought, but I believe they wish to just rid themselves of human influence and threat or at least reduce our numbers so greatly that we would be on the verge of endangerment. Think on it. Over the past two years, the governments have changed radically all across the south, not even just Kaoacien. Down there, the numbers are constantly increasing and now more than it has been in recent history. And as we've discussed in the past, the Shadowlands is certainly where the Dakini reside, and using the toxic fog is their way of keeping everyone else out. I am absolutely confident about this."
"But what I do not understand is why the Deathknights and why the Shadowbirds. They simply rid us with the airborne toxins, so why the minions? The fog is so strong it could ruin us simply. During our last two months in the south, there were approximately four reports about the poisonous fogs affecting populated villages, the fourth of which my brother and I had the opportunity to be a part of. We enlisted on an expedition crew sent to investigate the deaths of villagers in one of the outskirt villages, Okhan village. It was a small village town of probably no more than a few hundred but when we arrived, it was a ghost town. The fog was so dense and toxic, I'm telling you that when we could hardly stay there long before the whole team began to regurgitate and nearly pass out. I mean every word of it. My skin was practically rotting under the clothing I wore."
Gelasius rolled up the sleeves of his shirt until they were both bundled past the elbows. He extended out his arms to the group, examining their expressions as he did it. All there faces expressed disgust and shock at what they witnessed, for what lied in front of their eyes were patches of rotted green skin piled on his arms. It was not so severe as to cause too much alarm but it was as if his skin was plagued by randomly assorted patches of mildly ailed skin.
He retracted both arms but did not roll down his sleeve, as if to say he was not ashamed of the marks which he bared.
"There are more welts across my body. The same ailments I suffer from, my brother suffers too. We've used several creams and herbs on our faces and bodies but some sores remain prevalent. But areas within my body which I cannot reach remain assailed by the infectious toxins. For instance, I can no longer smell out of my left nostril and the bottom of my tongue has been sore ever since. Not even the heat I produce from my body helps, I've tried many times to burn the toxins. Still...we are the fortunate ones. Hard to believe, right? Our bodies are able to prevent the infection from festering; I cannot speak the same for the other men exposed to the gas."
Gelasius looked down glumly, his jaw pressed tightly into one strong coalition of teeth which were all whitish-yellow, and his hands clasped into one another.
"We could do nothing for them. The men on our expedition, all those exposed died within one week after our visit to Okhan. The infection in them had spread. They passed in Roselake inside that small hospice with the popular garden. Their deaths were kept discreet. This is a grave problem, and not one we can dismiss. Only our talent kept us alive, if not for that we would have been among the dead. In my personal opinion, Father, this will situation will be our gravest mistake if we do not make it a top concern. Personally, I do not know of any way to suppress the fetors but there is always a way."
Gelasisus stared at Atlas hopefully.
Atlas nodded and, to Gelasius's surprise, disregarded his longing stare, and then turned to the next individual to speak but not before giving a gentle nod and warm smile showing he was grateful for the information Gelasisus shared.
The manner in which he moved on was so subtle, it was almost as if Gelasius never spoke. And the expression on his face was so ambiguous, so empty of indicative expression, a riddle to put plainly.
The attention of the room followed Atlas' path of vision. The attention now fell upon Maddard whose expression was apoplectic, to say the least. His cheeks were rosy and his eye ducts accrued. With thickset tears, Maddard attempted to pour words from his mouth but his throat would not widen enough for those words to pass. His attempts to speak were choppy and cracky. His chest was sizzling and pounding, for his impassioned heart had burned a hole through. He was shattered and he did not intend to keep it a secret. Baccus eyed Maddard.
Although his utterances were choky and uneasy to discern, he began to speak nonetheless.
"In the past day—In the past day...in the past day," he could barely complete his thoughts without his words being rendered inaudible through his deep whimpering.
His throat was expanding fiercely, his shaky face burned with red, and his two hands were assailed by these unceasing spams. With eyes that said they cared, Atlas gently insisted that Maddard take his time and that this was his time to pour his heart out as much as he needed.
He was now in full tears, memories of his wife flooding in his unsteady mind. He missed her smile and all her inviting traits. She was this broken man's world, the heat to his passion, the moon to his unruly tides that guided and calmed him. And she was now gone. He felt himself in a netherworld, a harrowing plane that did not care to cater to him nor his sentiments. A realm so crimson and so black that none else could be seen. He felt like a shell, an empty vessel.
With weak wrists, he flung his hands outwardly in distress. Thick veins bulged from parts of his neck and head, and pudgy mucus trickled down into his red beard.
"I know—I know I am not the best of men. I am hardly even a decent man. But even decent men deserve a decent life...a decent life with a decent woman."
It was troubling for him to even speak, stumbling and burbling on the gush of saliva and tears which gathered between his lips. He was in tatters, shuddering wildly in every direction conceivable. Physically, he discerned each and every writhing pulse and stroke of his skittish heart. There was a void within him now which widened with every second that passed. He could not focus. He barely breathed.
A bumbling tangle of heartache, anguish, and loneliness was what he was. His chest was a barren crackle of parched land, and his heart was the last flower to perish. His eyes were overwhelmed by red so dark and pervasive, his dark brown irises were hardly visible among the dark tones. A small puddle of tears formed between his quivering legs which shook with such ferocity. His wails rang heartfelt in each individual's ears, echoing across halls.
They could not help but stare at the distressed man who was ensnared in such a dusky rhythm. Olympia, incapable of idly watching any being suffer in such a state of torment, sprung from her seat, motioning past Gelasius, who was quite disheartened by all of this, and towards Maddard. She spread apart her fingers and proceeded to gently settle the flat of her hand across his back. She rubbed in a circular motion, gently and comfortingly, calmly and motherly. Her face changed into something demented. The wrinkles of her forehead contorted and her lips trembled in a wave-like motion. She too began weeping incessantly. Her pale countenance brimmed red and humid steam flowed from the holes of her ears and nose.
His weeping was like a magnet which drew her compassionate heart ever closer, pulling Olympia into his broad torso until she was suffocated under his massive weight. She pleaded with him to cease the tears as the others watched on in bemusement. It was all so heartfelt for most in the room, even Atlas seemed taken although it was something he, as well as Pontus and Alastor, had seen plenty times before.
"To—to take to his arm," he managed to mutter through the dense oozing of saliva and mucus.
"I have never asked this world for much. I have never asked the Gods for much...I don't even know if I can believe they are there to hear me. All who I have wronged and all wrong that I have done...I have prayed forgiveness so many times to so many gods! So why? Why must I be so wounded?"
This was more than crying. Worse. It was the unearthing of all his gloom. It was the kind of weeping that rang in the ears of the others as a lone creature stripped of the one treasure it had remaining.
Although stern, they could not help but empathize with the mournful man who poured his wounded soul and spirit upon the hardwood floor below. From the way their faces mimicked his, it was evident that they all they felt the writhing agony of having lost something dear.
"She was everything I had!"
He was sobbing uncontrollably with his face fumbling around in his hands. Olympia had her face rest in his chest, crying unrelentingly, trying her best to soothe him. Atlas, with eyes solely on focused on Maddard, began to speak with a voice so placid.
"Loss of true love is a heavy weight, this is one of many things I have come to know, Bessarian. I have seen many faces like yours and that have cried such tears as yours. And I too have been in dark places. Right now you feel a surge of jitters spiraling across your body. Your hand and muscles inside of them are pounding so hard you'd thought they ruptured. Your throat can hardly intake oxygen so you believe you cannot breathe. Your heart feels as a rock. You are not even thinking, you are just mindlessly drifting, hearing voices but not listening as you would."
Everyone in the room stared at Atlas as he spoke. Even Maddard, although torn inside, looked up at Atlas. Both their eyes were locked, their spirits felt as if they were joined. For a second, Maddard believed no one else but Atlas and himself were in existence. He could feel their spirits joined on a plane distant from this world. The look he saw when he ogled into Atlas' eyes was a look of full understanding of tragedy. When he gazed into that Purple Man's eyes, he entered into a world so dark and miserable. Atlas' eyes spoke millions of tales that could not be aptly rendered into words. Maddard could hardly understand how he did not see it before. But now it was clearer the longer they locked eyes. He was looking into the eyes of a man who had run out of tears.
"And I know life may appear over to you now. Never will I speak a lie to you, Bessarian." He glanced around the room, gorging everyone's expressions.
"Never will I lie to anyone within this room. The life of a Rare Men...no, the life of any creature is certainly an experience no matter how one interprets or perceives. But there will always be times when you felt you have lost it all. There will always be times when you actually have lost it all. Times when you do not know yourself, when you cannot stand to see yourself. Days and nights when you ponder what life is truly worth and if you yourself are of any worth."
"And as I stare into you, Bessarian, I see a man who has felt he has lost it all. I see a man who does not know himself. I see a man who cannot stand himself. But understand this: before you lies a family. A family who will stand when your legs are too weak to move. A family who is willing to die for each another, bleed, and sacrifice their beliefs for one another. Your one family has been taken from you...but just recognize this, Bessarian, as long as we all here breathe, you will always know what it means to have family."
As Atlas concluded, he broke eye contact and looked down at his feet. It was not clear what his thoughts were, but there was a weight on his mind. He let out a sigh too low for any other to discern.
He spoke a whisper to himself sullenly, "And sometimes in life in order to become strong we must first be broken..."
His eyes wandered on wistfully for a while with a dead smile etched into his sunken face.