It took them around six days to finally navigate their way outside the lake’s depths, but when they had finally done so, Enuill had already finished changing into something else —something inhuman.
Not long after they rose from the shorelines, they employed the moonlight-illuminated surface of the water as a mirror reflection to themselves, their expressionless features staring back with sharp otherworldliness.
Water did not cling to them at all. Hexameron’s long black mantle form blanketed the entirety of their body aside from their face, as they found themselves effortlessly phasing through the lake, unfettered and impervious to anything tangible. The vaporous cloak ended in a thick tail moving menacingly back and forth, trespassing through solids without any sign of resistance.
While it had shifted towards a half-translucent gleam, their skin did not show any sign of damage or water suspension, and they no longer had any need for oxygen either. Their pupils, now even thinner and more focused than before, had turned supernaturally pale. They had no sign of life in them, forever an echo of their transcendence from mortal coils.
All pain, fear, and fragility of their former human existence had been shed like snake skin, replaced by a profound aura of power and lethal grace. No prophets could now disturb their serenity. Under the gaze of the voyeur god, Enuill turned him witness to immaculate devastation —to their ascension towards freedom.
Despite their broken wings… They lived again.
Spiked edges clinked metrically in the collar of their obsidian tunic as they turned towards their back, eyes examining the craggy maws of what appeared to be an underground passage in the heart of Lake Aqueveque’s islet. It exuded unmistakable currents of darkness from deep within, the same encompassing essence that had lured Enuill there like a beacon under the currents would.
Yet, for as much as they wanted to explore whatever forsaken wonder to be met at the end of such passage, they had other matters to attend to.
For the judgment cast down upon them had been left unfinished, despite the way in which their heart was brought to stop, veins kept frozen. Their task was to dictate a last litany for the bleeders of their tortured spirit, and to terminate every last shackle of servitude —ready to present them all with their secretly self-written alternate ending.
Softly, gracefully, Enuill unearthed the virtues of lucidity from the ruins.
They would have revenge for being disowned and banished.
Hexameron’s inky black shroud undulated with a life of its own as they glided across the quiet surface of the Lake. Enuill’s bare feet left no ripples, no disturbance upon the mirroring waters —were they a ghost? A wraith? It mattered not.
Their white eyes stared unblinkingly ahead, traversing the placid lake until it was gradually replaced by the mainland, morning mist parting in their wake as they drew near.
Familiar sightings of the plantation’s fields and its dwellings extended before them. Even from afar, they could perceive the tiny figures of their brethren already driven to toil under the brutal labor. A cold sense of detachment washed over Enuill. They remember the daily torment too vividly, but now… They were beyond such trappings —moonlit-colored iris in the shadows of the tightropes.
Slipping in amongst the workers like a reaping specter, they phased between the rows of crouched figures, hacking at the unyielding soil with crude tools. Enuill’s ethereal form passed through their sweating, broken bodies utterly unimpeded and unnoticed. Seemed like none could perceive the entity stalking their midst.
They took in all of their shared anguish inside their withered spirit, breathing in all of the oppression. Mammy Moonlight’s familiar face was similarly dragging a crude plow, as the dead child approached to sense the tremors of her weakened stance. Recent lashing wounds marked her back, signaling that their overseers had intensified their cruelty after Enuill’s passing.
A hand was stretched towards her as the ghost guide made a conscious effort to become real, yearning to touch and be touched, undoing their cloak to softly pull on her dress —yet when her cry-swollen eyes were finally given a chance to turn in their direction… There was no sign of recognition.
“Mammy? It’s me.” Enuill said, gingerly and timidly with a barely heard voice, despite an incapability to break free from the hollow emptiness of their lifeless gaze. “I made my way back.”
The older woman flinched abruptly, her entire body shaken by surprise from the unexpected contact. Despite their unspoken goodbye at the gallows’ end, Enuill was there.
However…
“C… Child! Where did you come from!?” There was the familiar warmth in her voice despite her hushed urgency, as she went down to her knees to rest a hand on their shoulder. “Are you lost? What happened to you?”
The words, spoken with panicked worry made Enuill’s spirit sink inside their unnatural body. They had feared that such a thing would happen —that she could not remember him anymore.
Just like how Hexameron had rewritten reality after the iron muzzle’s erasure…They had similarly ceased to exist. All traces of their former life were now gone and void.
A flicker of what could’ve been dismay ghosted across Enuill''s obscured features before the emotion was ruthlessly snuffed out, subsumed by a voracity for righteousness burning within. Clenching their fists, Hexameron’s blades flexed outward as if preparing to strike, the mantle manifesting itself all at once. Moonlight looked dazed for a moment at the now empty space before her, posture corrected not soon after with a conflicted expression.
Their brethren could not see the new truth they had become —but there was no need for them to understand the power they now commanded.
“It’s okay, Mammy…” Enuill whispered, attempting to grip her fingers tightly, yet failing. “I’m going to free you all. You don’t have to do anything.”
So be it. Even if they could not join Enuill’s revolution willingly, they would guide them behind the curtains —no depth too steep if they needed to bridge it to rectify all.
They would make the oppressors witness the terror in their very flesh… And perhaps then everyone would finally be unshackled from the lies that bound them.
With purpose bordering on zealotry, Enuill turned their hollow gaze upon the few strutting enslavers making sure that their family remained broken. Soon, they too would understand the full consequences of their transgressions.
Enuill''s iridescent gaze fell upon a rusted sickle lying discarded in the dirt nearby, its curved blade caked with dried mud and filth. Without hesitation, a tendril of darkness drifted over and grasped the tool, bringing it towards the hand peeking from under the mantle. The steel seemed to groan in malign eagerness as their grip tightened around the wood handle —it was an ironic device to sever all ties with.
For as big as they thought themselves to be, the men hectoring their brethren with bullwhips resting in waist were little more than disposable foot soldiers —mindless cogs in the merciless machinery of those above.
While Enuill could never bring themselves to see them under mercy or consideration… It was the true architect that needed their attention the most —the corrupt being that gave shape to this empire of suffering.
The lavish house looking down on them was almost like directly taunting for attention, resting on top of a low rise above the fields. It was the place where they knew the so-called ‘Master’ resided, relishing in conveniences paid for with the blood of their people.
It was time to repay that despondent man for so casually condemning them to die.
Like a vengeful spirit, Enuill felt their feet leaving the ground as they rose into the air step by step, all sense of mass and corporeal restraints being sloughed away. They took a moment getting used to having nothing beneath, but then they proceeded to shift like a ghost slicing through reality, an unbothered anomaly given just enough substance to roam the earth.
No shadows marked their passage, and no ray of the sun could warm their essence, soaring over the tilled fields while leaving both the hateful and the repressed behind with implacable purpose ahead.
In a matter of minutes, their head peeked through the walls of the plantation manor, subtly materializing into a coalescence of semi-solidity. They quickly found naturally themselves dominating such changes of corporeality, coming almost as easily as they had once breathed. The obsidian mantle flared as They trespassed barriers, no more substantial than curtains of vapor.
Enuill’s eyes widened slightly as they accustomed to the interior lights of the opulent study room. In there, hunched over a desk surrounded by papers was the unmistakable figure of their target. Darker intentions obscured their features, edging closer unnoticed to hear the old man muttering to himself, a quill flicking on empty space as he reviewed previous scratches piously.
“… In this victory, we reclaim our spot as the free children of the Lord, for all men are granted equality under His grace, regardless of land. We stand not just as victors in battle but as champions of liberty, where every man, woman, and child can breathe the sweet air of freedom…”
The blatant hypocrisies dripping from his reedy voice made the ravenous hunger within Enuill’s new existence flare even stronger. His was a mind that could never be taught righteousness —the insidious doublespeak and the false pied mere tools to obscure a rotten soul drowned in crimes against the soil.
As ‘Master’ continued his self-serving ranting while penning more grandiloquent calls for atonement and memorials, Enuill fixed him with a hate-filled stare. Whether his god justified such delusions or not mattered very little to them —no more than noise to be canceled. If it was salvation he yearned for, he was free to beg for it after all falsehood was broken.
As a couple workers retreated from the office, Enuill tightened their grip on the rusted sickle until it creaked, allowing their mind to be overtaken by an all-consuming murderous intent. With ‘Master’ finally alone save for the ghostly presence watching him from the shadows, the dead child allowed their fingers to creep forward from under their ebon cloak.
Unnatural chills emanated from the rift created within the black fog of their manifesting essence. Acute to all reactions, they could sense the hairs on the back of the old man’s neck stirring, caressed by freezing whispers from the abyss. Their fingers were but a premonition of death’s icy touch.
The hand of the ‘Master’ stilled on the rag paper, droplets of ink dripping down unevenly as he became aware of the shift in the air currents. His crinkled face twisted in confusion and sudden trepidation, turning his form in the chair under trembling legs to face the source of unsettlement.
A cry of shock and revulsion viscerally burst from his parched throat. Wild, panicked eyes swept over Enuill’s impassive form, taking in the unholy visage of writhing shadows and the unstable geometries taking shape in their cloak. But it was the sight of those piercing and blank white eyes, devoid of any shred of humanity, that made his voice fail in terror.
“Who… Who are… What manner of monster!?” He finally choked out, hands gripping the armrests in a death grip as sweat beaded on his brow. “How did you get in here!?”
Such irrelevant questions held no more significance to Enuill than a fly’s buzzing. They leaned in closer, the serrated edges of Hexameron’s spines undulating almost in tangible amusement, leaning in with a voice utterly devoid of empathy.
“What am I?” Enuill’s handle on human language had always been fickle at best. Yet for this one instance, they were savoring each word instilling fright as a haunt returned ephemeral flesh. “Is that fear?”
>> “Stay still… Let the eyes rest.” Their voice was disjointed, an echo of an imitation of Moonlight’s intonations as she hushed them to sleep, only with far more ominous intent. “Shut them close. Join this darkness.”
As Enuill spoke in that disquieting, hollow tone, they continued creeping closer until both their form comprised together with the old man’s. For as incorporeal as their body could be, the deeply seated horror from such a profane invasion soon enough triggered a more stark reaction from the ‘Master’.
Well, not like it surprised Enuill in the least, for violence was the language that monsters such as this man knew the best —mere instinctive reactions bred from a lifetime of subjugating through authority and brutality.
With a strangled cry, ‘Master’ snatched up the inlaid ivory pen from his desk and thrust it towards Enuill, seeking to pierce the neck of the aberration manifesting in his private study. In abrupt motions, the tiny but sharp edge lashed out…
… Only to pass through Enuill’s form as if they were composed of illusory vapors and shadows, their semblance fleeting in physicality. Both the pen and the shoulders charging it forward phased through their small frame, devoid of any resistance or impediment.
Their core felt a spark of joy as the old man crashed into the wooden floor, however, their outer layer was so numbed that no expression was truly conveyed.
“Can’t hurt me. Can’t kill me.” Enuill intoned, moving towards the older man correcting his position on the floor, eyes fixing on him like a concentrated maelstrom. “If you wish to know, I can tell you what I am…” The child specter continued, enjoying the flavor of his fright. “… A god in the making.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Those reverberating whispers were paired with a hand moving downward, the edge of the rusty sickle leading the charge as they approached the old man with horrifying fluidity. Before ‘Master’ could even flinch, both tool and hand had pierced his stomach, passing through flesh and bone as easily as smoke through lattice —yet they didn’t harm. Not yet.
“To resist is useless. It’ll only make you sad.”
>> “So hush now… That death is coming.”
With the finality of a guillotine drop, Enuill’s intangible fingers coalesced into brutal solidity inside the old man’s body. The eyes of the tyrant bulged in shock as agony eclipsed his senses, the scorching hotness of blood and ruptured organs searing the dead guide’s skin.
In a viciously efficient upwards motion, both the hand and the sickle carved a swift and merciless ragged path from entrails to sternum. A spray of gore and viscera erupted forth as the torso was forced open, with Enuill momentarily closing their eyes to savor the screams unimpaired.
The wail of pure, unfiltered suffering was one of the first things Enuill had found to be undeniably exquisite —but since they didn’t want to alert any of the inhabitants of the manor, they silenced it abruptly and decisively. The blade lashed one more time, moving in a lateral swipe aimed at the old man’s windpipe, lodging itself momentarily against the frail resistance of flesh.
Wet gurgles took control of the room as the throat ended up nearly taken from his body, releasing another obscene fountain of crimson across the study —one that Enuill selectively chose to avoid, having no intention of letting such disgusting liquid to taint him.
Yes, this was more like it.
No more pretty rhetoric in which to cower from retribution.
As the disemboweled man let his head fall with a thud, already leaking its putrid lifeblood across the ornate carpets, so did Enuill ascend to stare him down unblinkingly. There was no longer ire swirling inside them, but rather a morbid satisfaction of a good deed finally done —terrible and implacable over the carnage.
“I’m afraid no hell awaits you.” Enuill intoned their words with the delicacy of a lullaby, white eyes spotless and perennial despite the viscera adorning the floor. “But neither does the god you pray to.”
Gargled sounds from the old man’s mutilated throat accompanied their murmurs. Since they were the being taking his life away, the young guide descended upon him, hushing and tenderly giving ‘Master’ his final rites.
“No need to be restless. Take comfort. I’ll make everything right.”
For as much visceral resonance that enacting this vengeance produced in their ruined soul, Enuill did not consider themselves as consumed by an insatiable appetite for bloodshed —like all those pale monsters were. If they were slaying this one particular beast, they were doing so with a very clear motive and purpose in mind.
Hollow white eyes gazed undisturbed at the soon-to-become remains, fascinated by the last instances of life being exhaled, unraveling and dispersing like ashes on the wind.
Soon enough, there was nothing left behind but an empty husk, devoid of even a flicker of sentience. And that’s exactly what Enuill had been waiting for.
When their powers were newly born, the maws of Hexameron had run short of their goal of consuming the overseer in their way. The reach of emptiness had been stopped, proving ineffective against flesh when trying to unmake alive matter —but ‘Master’ could no longer be considered among the living now, could he?
Spreading from beneath the obsidian mantle, the grasp of darkness unfurled once more, with Enuill closing their eyes in preparation for the large meal ahead. Behind their eyelids, they could sense the infinite expanses of the insatiable void calling for more, ready to swallow even the faintest sparks of ignis fatuus that remained within their prey.
Reality itself halted to a shuddering stop, groans of flesh drifting through the air as a series of interlocking layers of black coalesced around the diminishing cadaver.
The newly-formed vortex bit down in ethereal streaks of light-devouring emptiness —serpentine fangs of the abyss given free reign. Wherever the singularities touched the rapidly cooling corpse, sickly gray tendrils of Hexameron’s essence could be felt leaching away in inky gossamer strands.
Like a cancer being burned away by an impossibly intense coldness, the old man’s very soul was being siphoned into the abyssal realm. Bit by infinitesimal bit. Bite by bite.
Only when the entire process had been brought to an end did Enuill gaze upon the aftermath. Their always unwavering eyes drifted through the space left emptied in the absence of a corpse, however, blood still stained both the carpet and the wooden flooring. There was a distant rumble they could not quite decipher, as if all the karmic weight of that monster’s atrocities were attempting to coalesce into something new —history rewritten in the annals of reality.
Looking at their own hand, the ghost couldn’t pick up any substantial change in their being. Prior usages of Hexameron’s ability had reformed tissue and undone the damages caused by the item being devoured. Seemed to be like it had some very clear limits they were yet to unearth —they couldn’t recover a life once lost, though they didn’t care much for their own.
Tilting their head almost contemplatively, Enuill moved away from the discarded vestiges of blood and towards the study’s window, hoping for the vantage point in which them and the other subjugated were so casually stared down from before. ‘Master’ had been eternally devoured, of that they had no doubt. Their reckoning had been enacted… But what did that exactly entail for the many lives that were kept beneath the plantation owner’s thumb?
Surveying the fields did not raise any superficial sign of change. The manor itself appeared untouched, a bastion of opulence that would take them too much effort to devour… But still, something did feel amiss —a discordant note yet to be properly identified.
A more thorough examination over the people themselves began to slowly unravel the still unfolding nuances of this new reality. Those enslaved, one by one, began to look at each other with emanations of confusion and uncertainty rippling through their body language, a muddled haze of forgotten purpose cloaking their collective consciousness.
Some paused mid-motion, tools hovering trepidantly as they exchanged bewildered glances, the rhythms of their ceaseless labor disrupted. Others continued their tasks with a glazed, almost trance-like determination, driven by a muscle memory Enuill could not erase. Soon enough, they would also stop.
The steady cadence of overseer barks and whip-cracks similarly muted, falling just the same into a shared stupor along with the workers.
It was as though a veil had been lifted, exposing the hollow facade of their existence —a construct built upon layers of enforced subjugation and accepted norms. Enuill couldn’t help but grow excited, their intervention having torn through those atrocious illusions, leaving everyone adrift in a sea of new possibilities, grasping for meaning in a world that had been irrevocably shifted.
A slow-acting poison that gradually sunk the fields into chaos. The tools clattered to the ground, their purpose forgotten, as the laborers abandoned their posts.
Some drifted aimlessly, unmoored from the relentless cycle that had defined their existence up to this point. Others, however, were far more swift to salvage an objective from confusion. Whispers of memories stirred —recollections of loved ones taken away, of lives severed by the cruelty of bondage, now with nothing to stop them from reclaiming them back.
In purposeful strides, they began to unite, drawn together by an inexorable pull. Whether it was by the distant call of the places they were originally taken from, or simply by sharing the elusive possibility of freedom, there was no halting their march once it was truly set into motion.
The authority of the overseers had been rendered hollow, all attempts to reassert a vague control ringing empty. They also had no idea of why they were there in the first place, so any halfheartedly yelled order simply fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the swell of murmurs —a rising chorus of determination.
Satisfaction elicited a smile from Enuill, who continued observing the unfolding scene with grim comfort. It was their intervention that had been the catalyst, but they did not have a need to conduct all on their lonesome anymore. As the crowd steadily gathered momentum and numbers, soon enough they became a mass too powerful to be contained; and so the ghost guide simply allowed themselves to moderate from the sidelines, drifting down the manor’s heights and merging with them as a concealed warden.
This new era wasn’t Enuill’s alone. While they had been the one to unravel the chain, the reckoning upon this tainted land was only just unfurling, and it would be built by all their joined hands.
As the crowd surged forth, so did the ethereal sentinel bearing witness to their emancipation follow. Leaving the confines of the plantation behind, they all ventured into corners hitherto unseen by the young specter.
In these new places, the pales mingled with their own kind in larger numbers, their lives playing out in complete disregard of the pain they imposed so absentmindedly. Some of them cowered from the multitude, but others reacted with open hostility, brandishing weapons and spouting vile imprecations.
But there was Enuill to keep them at bay. Moving invisible and implacable, all threats were dissipated into nothingness by the mere touch of their fingers, consumed by the void they now effortlessly commanded. Muskets and blades disintegrated into nothingness, leaving their wielders agape in impotency. Without their weapons, they had no longer any means in which to stop them.
The young guide felt like a force of nature given form, so much that it was hard not to relish in this heady rush of vindication. Each obstacle to be obliterated, and every obstacle surmounted, was a brand new flavor spreading through their numbed-down senses like a liberating frenzy.
As the high tide of freedom crested, sweeping across the heart of the entire settlement… It was but eventual that they would cross a last stand conformed by their enemies gathering in similar great numbers.
Whether it was warranted or not, whether they had an owner or not, fear turned to desperation and viciousness. It was almost like the pales could not accept the concept of seeing them free.
And such fragile tension shattered before Enuill could do anything about it.
Gunshots blared across the air, charging it with the acrid stench from the smoking barrels. The lethal volleys were unleashed mercilessly into the surging crowd, birthing a pandemonium of screams and outrage that cared not for the ghost guide’s attempts to recover control.
One by one, the bodies crumpled to the dusty ground as their brethren began to fall. Crimson bloomed across the worn fabrics in grotesque patterns, though the surge of the newly liberated pushed defiantly onward, even when they lacked any substantial means to retaliate against such brutal containment brigade assembled to crush their insurrection.
Undeterred by the cracking of muskets, or perhaps even bolstered by them, their people showed their refusal to falter —to not surrender what little ground they had claimed. Defiance similarly blazed Enuill, an inferno of resolve that could not be as easily smothered. They poised themselves to strike, eager to do everything in their power to prevent any life from succumbing to demise.
Amidst the throes of flesh and violence, a solitary figure yelled in opposition, desperately trying to quell the escalating conflict with upraised hands and a deep, penetrating voice demanding attention.
Enuill’s ethereal essence froze as Mammy Moonlight’s weathered features pleaded for restraint, for wisdom to overcome the escalating hatred on both sides. Despite the whip-scored expanses on her back, she moved with the same strength and poise that had for so long been a symbol of perseverance to the dead child’s eyes.
For a fleeting moment, the youth deluded themselves into thinking that her impassioned words might de-escalate the conflagration, lest it finished burning everything away…
But the crack of a rifle came as merciless and certain as always, sinking such fickle hope for peace right back into oblivion.
Numbed by shock, Enuill could do nothing more than watch, as the musket ball punched through the air and obliterated Mammy Moonlight’s throat and left shoulder into mere chunks of torn flesh. Her eyes went wide, immediately falling to the ground as weak hands grasped at the ruined muscles, crumpling on herself as countless other feet stomped their way past her.
Though they cried out, no sound coming from Enuill’s lips managed to reach anyone’s ears. They felt fragile once more, like mere glass in the wake of that indiscriminate savagery.
Wave after wave of anguish and regret deluged the ghost child’s senses, all of their cherished memories with their beloved matriarch coming back to haunt them in brilliant clarity —her nurturing guidance, her warm cheek whenever they kissed it, her effervescent spirit in spite of all of the pain, and her stubborn refusal to let their collective soul be broken no matter how dire the circumstances.
All of it… Extinguished by one careless shot amidst so many others.
Helplessness and despair consumed them rapidly, shuddering and recoiling from all the emotions they were no longer able to control, nor which they tried to. They wanted to be undone under the maws of Hexameron just like they had done with the ‘Master’ before —for this resolution was of their own conceited doing.
Enuill could no longer care about the conflict. All that mattered was getting their unstable form to Mammy Moonlight’s side, clutching onto her despite knowing full well how the red pooling beneath her symbolized her life fading away. The rest simply collapsed inwards to that single brutal point, of an irreplaceable light unjustly snuffed out.
Half-translucent and trembling hands reached out, trying to grasp hers and reaffirm the connection that had served for so long as his sole solace…
Yet they could not touch.
Try as they might, Enuill’s eyes were unable to manifest the tears that welled up from the profound depths of their broken soul. They wanted nothing more than to keen their anguish into the uncaring god above, but even that was denied.
Despite being reborn from pain, peace, death, lies, sadness and innocence… Enuill’s heart was not much more than a masquerade. An inhuman whisper unable to care anymore, even as the last member of their family fell bloodied and broken —collaterals from the unjust and unequal confrontation the young guide had so irresponsibly begun.
So they remained in place, unable to cradle Mammy Moonlight’s lifeless form as the chaos subsided around them. They were utterly, irreparably broken, their mind splintering into fragmented shards that could no longer piece together individual thoughts or coherent motivations.
Day after endless day, night after interminable night, they knelt in the streets, unmoving, unmoved. The corpses were eventually cleared away, the fighting concluded, but still Enuill kept their solitary, unyielding vigil. They could not fully let go, could not tear themselves away from the last traces of their people lingering in the soil, even when they experienced no needs or cravings.
There was no one single enemy to blame, no clear objective for their anger to lash out against. The whole world, all of this vile reality seemed rotten to the core. A hideous, self-perpetuating typhoon of cruelty, overfed on hollow justifications.
And perhaps… Perhaps they themselves were simply another puppet in this loathsome spectacle. In soul-withering defeat, they realized that their quest for liberation had ended in nothing more than one more exercise in senseless tragedy.
What kind of hope was there to enact, what lasting change could they make, when the stars above appeared engineered to grind their bones into dust? Their power, the all-consuming maws of Hexameron… They had been just as insufficient to erode away the shackles.
Just like Mammy had warned them… Power alone would never be enough to change a thing.
Enuill saw now that the world operated on transient half-truths and institutionalized lies far beyond their current capacity for reason or understanding. They were but a mote of impermanence in an implacably uncaring universe. A walking ghost story already severed from history.
And so, as the aimless passage of time continued to blur past in an incomprehensible smear, Enuill began to similarly drift. Their phantasmal form was unable to age, incapable of change, so they simply coursed across the land like a lost specter with neither purpose nor direction.
They witnessed more of humanity’s bottomless capacity for malice and greed as backgrounds and perpetrators changed. Bore witness to both unconscionable atrocities, as well as some individual stories of love and resilience… Yet, they always refused to interfere beyond superficial, immediate manners.
For not even the original inhabitants of the land, who had embraced a similar spiritual resonance to what Enuill had done, could even come close to seeing the true pointlessness and uncertainty behind their worldly worries.
Some part of the dead child had already accepted their fundamental insignificance —they were simply a brush too small against the enormous canvas of humanity.
At some point or another… Even memory began to fail, the burden of grief too harsh to bear across the agonizing decades turning to centuries.
Perhaps if they better understood the grander clockwork of creation operating behind the veil, where Hexameron and the other monsters like it originated from, they could finally find the fulcrum point to leverage true freedom for every breathing being.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would remain forever wandering, a supernatural and persistent watcher, helpless and unwilling to combat the juggernauts of entropy and fate.
It was something that Enuill had already resigned themselves to ever find a resolute answer for —at least not until even they ended up eaten by another primordial entity like them, a victim to larger and more ravenous fangs.
However… Whether a part of a larger design of causality or a mere trick of chance, a man with a clear vision eventually walked before their path, across lands too far away from the lake waters that robbed Enuill of their original breath.
The ghost child was never freed from their desolating lack of faith in humanity. It was imprinted far too indelibly in their vaporous, intangible fibers —but if this man’s plan was to be trusted…
Then they didn’t mind sullying their fingers with the issues of the living one final time.