23. Last Sorrow


    The settlement, if one could even call it that, consisted of shallow holes dug into the side of the cliff. Home to about thirty-odd Rakshasa Penitents—including the dozen or so that had tried to jump Serac and Zacko—this humble collection of high-elevation cave dwellings bore the rather gloomy name of Last Sorrow.


    The first thing that caught Serac’s attention—after she’d stopped marveling at the precarious engineering that had gone into Last Sorrow’s construction—was the presence of a giant lotus flower.


    Even larger than her Waystations and just as pure-white, it bloomed in the center of the largest cave, one that served as a gathering place of sorts. And wouldn’t you know it? When she sat down and meditated next to it, it reconstituted her and sent her into leveling mode just as a regular Waystation would.


    “This is a Hubstation,” Trippy explained, continuing to define his new role as a perfectly inoffensive tour guide. “Rather than being placed down by individual choice, this particular installation would’ve taken root from the cumulative imprints of an untold number of Wayfarers who’d passed through here over the ages.”


    “Really? But it’s right next to the Fibrinous Canyon. How could any Wayfarer have passed through here at all, let alone an ‘untold number’ of them?”


    “The Fibrinous Canyon wasn’t always here. But Wayfarers have been trying to ascend Mount Meru for many Kalpas.”


    Trippy’s explanation was to-the-point and quite reasonable. Indeed, when Serac meditated into the ‘Hubstation’, she also learned of its designation: [Sanzu Basin South]. That was further proof that this lotus flower predated the river’s dessication—was perhaps even older than ‘Last Sorrow’ itself.


    However ancient the Hubstation might be, it’d clearly become something of a sacred relic for the residents of Last Sorrow. None of the other Rakshasas here were Wayfarers, meaning they couldn’t reconstitute at [Sanzu Basin South] if they died, nor could they access Pathsight’s leveling system to improve their fitness to survive. But that didn’t stop them from gathering around the lotus flower for group meditation sessions.


    Presently, Serac stood off to the side to observe one of these sessions, more out of curiosity than with any real purpose.


    Her mood had considerably improved since the nasty business with Sublimity, and all it’d taken was a bit of introspection plus a fresh set of clothes, courtesy of one of the Sorrowers who happened to be a skilled seamstress. The tunic and pants had been sewn together using the molted exoskeleton of Flesh-fiends (yuck!), but the new clothes certainly looked better on her than the erstwhile Penitent’s rags, which was a good enough reason to overlook their unsavory origins. All that to say Serac was now in the correct attire and headspace to immerse herself in some Narakite culture.


    The meditation was led—unsurprisingly—by Ravi, the wizened Rakshasa that had called the earlier ambush to a halt. He took a central position in the back of the room while the others formed a loose circle around him. He then led the congregation in a kind of prayer, one that consisted of mumbled words that were barely intelligible over the group’s collective droning.


    Serac perked up her ears and listened, despite being overcome by a familiar sense of dread. The overlapping prayers reminded her too much of the lamentations of fellow inmates back in the Damnatorium, and the little snippets she did manage to catch here and there did little to improve her impression.


    “… Punish us… forgive us… let us repent… the inborn sins of our souls…”


    It didn’t take long for Serac to arrive at an uncomfortable truth—that these souls might be ‘free’ in flesh, but they were still very much ‘Penitent’ in spirit.


    Her disquiet only grew as she watched and noticed more irregularities. Many of the Sorrowers weren’t just praying; they were also being tortured—by themselves.


    Slapping their own bodies. Picking at festering wounds. Scratching the ground until their claws cracked. Nothing quite as bad as anything they might’ve endured in the Damnatorium, but the fact that they were hurting themselves at all disturbed Serac to no end.


    One Rakshasa was being particularly hard on himself, repeatedly bashing his own head against the cave floor until his skin bled and bits of his horns chipped off. Serac recognized him with a start. He was the man that had tried to sneak up on Zacko before nearly killing himself in the process.


    “Still think I shouldn’t have let the poor bastard throw himself off the cliff?”


    Serac jumped, startled out of her own darkening thoughts. She then gave Zacko a sidelong glare as he lowered himself from the nearest ledge to join her. The Manusya too had changed into new flesh-sewn clothes, though in his case, the Rakshasa-minded tailoring proved a tight fit.


    “Did you know they would be like this?” Serac demanded, incredulous.


    “No. I mean, until an hour ago, I didn’t even know they existed. But I’ll say this. All this is… more or less in line with what we Manusyas have been taught about Naraka.”


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    At this, Serac’s glare twisted into an indignant frown. Somehow, the notion that a bunch of Manesferans three Realms above might be gossiping about her and her fellow Narakites didn’t sit well with her.


    “And what exactly do they teach you about Naraka?” she went on, dripping with sarcasm. “I’d love to know because, as you might’ve gathered, we Narakites aren’t as well-educated as you fancy folk.”


    “Don’t get pissy with me, Serac; I’m just calling it like it is,” Zacko retorted, as airy as ever. “Even without a fancy education, you should know that every one of the Six Realms has its own—well, let’s call it theme—that the Anchored souls are obsessed with. Naraka is hell, and that means everyone here is obsessed with penitence. So yeah, I’m not surprised to see these guys still trying to punish themselves even after they’d broken out of prison. If anything, you’re the weird one.”


    “I’m the weird one? For what, having some modicum of self-respect? For refusing to pay for a crime I don’t even remember committing?”


    “Yes. Exactly that. Glad you’re quick on the uptake.”


    Serac exhaled sharply through her mouth, by now more exasperated than angry.


    “Whatever. I’m not interested in debating philosophy with bullshitter extraordinaire. Oh, and to answer your question, yes! I don’t regret saving the guy, and you should feel bad about not doing it yourself!”


    Zacko narrowed his eyes at this, looking genuinely confused.


    “Why?”


    “Why? Because it’s the right thing to do! When someone needs help, we help them. That’s just a thing good souls do.”


    “But… the guy tried to kill us.”


    “Yeah, well, we’re Wayfarers. We can take it.”


    “… And who are you to say he even wanted our help? I mean, just look at him right now. He’s in literal hell, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Maybe the kind thing would’ve been to give his soul a chance at a new life, whatever that might look like.”


    “No,” Serac said flatly, not even remotely persuaded. In her brief time as a freesoul, she’d wavered on and agonized over a lot of things, but of this, she was 100% certain. She added, “The kind thing is to give him the chance to choose that for himself.”


    Zacko fell silent, eyes still slightly narrowed. After a beat, he too exhaled audibly, tinged with a mild chuckle.


    “Sure you’re not a poet, Serac? I have to admit, I never really thought of it that way.”


    “Yeah, well, maybe that’s why your Karma is in the negative millions.”


    At this, the chuckle turned into a genuine laugh. Only a brief one, however, before a familiar shadow crossed the Manusya’s face.


    Serac saw this and immediately regretted her words. By now, she’d been around Zacko long enough to know that certain topics brought out the ‘ghost of despair’ in him. Apparently, the actual why of his extensive Karmic deficit was one such topic.


    She thought about apologizing, then could find neither the right words nor the appropriate attitude for it. For one thing, she wasn’t done being cross with the Manusya and his callous disregard for Rakshasa life. For another, she hadn’t yet been around Zacko long enough to understand his ghost on top of his person.


    But Serac was spared from having to continue a conversation that had lost its way, for that was when the Sorrower congregation ceased their ‘meditations’ and dispersed.


    The Rakshasas began to slouch and hobble their separate ways, with more than a few of them stopping to give Serac and Zacko a stricken look before quickly averting their gaze. It seemed that here, away from the oppression of prison life, the Penitents had found in the Wayfaring pair a surrogate Jailer to fear and worship.


    Ravi the ancient Rakshasa was the last to depart from the Hubstation. He, unlike the younger members of his congregation, approached the Wayfarers with purposeful if doddering steps.


    “I trust,” he said, voice louder but no less feeble than his prayers, “that you’ve both managed to settle in without trouble?”


    Serac smiled at Ravi with as much goodwill as she could muster. Zacko merely stared, with one corner of his lips curled into the beginning of a sarcastic remark.


    “I hope also,” Ravi continued, rather breathlessly, “that you can find it in you to forgive our earlier indiscretions. We Penitents are a meek and fearful sort. And the only way for us to defend ourselves is by catching our enemies unawares. We did not know who you were, and could only assume that you’d been sent from the prison to retrieve us.”


    Zacko said nothing. Serac didn’t really know what to say, but felt like she must.


    “Understandable,” she said hastily, “and don’t worry about all the… you know, trying to kill us stuff. We’re Wayfarers. We can take it.”


    It was a kind of crutch, defaulting to the same sentiment she’d used in her earlier argument with Zacko. It was also meant as a feeble attempt at levity, but Ravi the elderly Penitent didn’t appear to take it as such. He looked to her with cataractous eyes that could barely see, then spoke with a gravity that his failing voice could barely carry.


    “Indeed, Wayfarers, it is in view of your boundless strength that I and all others at Last Sorrow must beseech your help. It is… truly divine providence that brought you to our midst in our time of greatest need and—”


    “Spit it out, old man,” Zacko deigned to speak for the first time, absent his usual airiness. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it. But if I were you, I’d try to make sure it’s something we would want to hear.”


    If Ravi, for all his posturing about the meek and fearful nature of his people, had been perturbed by Zacko’s belligerence, he didn’t show it. And he kept his unseeing eyes trained on his fellow Rakshasa as he gave his answer.


    “Our needs are simple, and our request to you even more so. We need to cross the Fibrinous Canyon, and for that, we beseech that you help us bring the Ferryman to heel.”