Chapter Text
The Primal, had it lips, would have smiled.
Clockwise activated the lever and energy coursed through the metal pipes and conduits. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, but whether it was from simple electrical charge or anticipatory nerves he was unsure – probably both. With a resounding crackle, the air before him ripped open like a doorway and where there was once only more of the ancient ruins Clockwise could now see grass and trees and – Gods Breath – his son! He stepped through, never thinking, never caring about the consequences.
The man, small foolish thing, got what it wanted. He would pay for that mistake. Mortals were far too frail and weak to handle such power. Far, far, more importantly was simply that a rip had been made. Finally. With the confidence of a decision that had been made more than two hundred years before the Primal reached into that void, through time itself, and made first one connection, and then another to pieces of the Primal in a form that humans could interact with, much like the Stone, except it was broken into five. The Crown. The Heart. The Chalice. The Paw. The Eye. As the last connection formed old and new greeted each other.
“The City will be in danger. The Balance is shifting,” The Primal pleaded to its old self. “Come to me. Help to restore it. The five of you can do it.”
“Not five,” beat the Heart. “But six.”
“What?” The Primal, for all its knowledge of the city, all its understanding was confused.
The Primal sensed the Sentients struggling to communicate after a lifetime of silence. They seemed to turn to the one who knew how. Its hoarse voice penetrated through the layers of time and space. “We are…other. Our city is not yours. Even so, we are connected. If one falls, so too do we all. We cannot travel. He can. If this if is to be done you need him. The little man. He is connected. He is….Balance.”
The Primal searched its vast memories but found no such person. Before the Primal could even begin to voice this concern the Eye whispered once more, “Find him here. Bring him to you. The little man must be a part of you from the beginning or he will never act. The path will be different, but the story much the same. It’s who he is.”
A new decision made, the Primal reached out through the rift once more, found the spark of itself inside of a human mind, seized it, and pulled relentlessly, drawing him through the void.
Sitting comfortably in his study, the old man nodded over a book as a fire crackled in the background. He had retired long ago, and now found the remainder of his life more passable with more simple pleasures. He itched the glyph on the back of his hand idly, and straightened with a sigh. His back popped in several places, signifying to him just how long he’d been bent over this latest document. As he stood, thinking to fetch a glass of wine before returning to his work, the old man suddenly felt icy fingers clutch at his heart. As his body sagged to the ground his mind seemed to lift away from the pain.
“Hello again, little man,” A hoarse whisper too close, too intimate to be anywhere but in his own head, mocking. And impossible. That voice had been permanently silenced years ago. “So close, and yet so far. Can you see me, little man? I can see you. With your own eye. Do you want it back? What would you do differently, I wonder…” The man shuddered at the unbidden memory, and like a string of paper cut outs, his life was suddenly dancing before his eyes.
Himself at seven, an orphan on the streets.
Himself at thirteen, attempting (and failing) to steal a purse from a man named Artemus who would lead him into a world he could scarcely believe existed, let alone be a part of.
Himself at eighteen, leaving that same world, with all the anger that a young man who was both talented and thought he knew everything could muster.
Himself at an early twenty-something, and his life truly beginning. Meeting Basso and his delicious sister. Meeting Viktoria and then Constantine. The betrayal. Losing his eye. The Maw. Destroying the Trickster, or at least his avatar and ‘winning’. Meeting a clever young Hammerite who offered him a bizarre replacement for his eye – a mechanical thing. He thought it was just for show, but the damned thing actually worked.
Himself in his mid-twenties, having to work harder than normal just to pay his rent. The slow infiltration of the faction of the Hammerites called Mechanists into the city and in turn, their slow invasion into his life. His unhappy reunion with Viktoria and discovery that the Mechanists were up to far more than religion. His slow developing relationship with Viktoria; one where he might have dared to open himself to someone outside his own head. One that ended with her death before it was even begun. Karras.
Himself, somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties. The Keepers reaching out to him, asking him for help. Finally admitting that they don’t know everything, they don’t have all the answers. Keeper Caduca, murdered, and himself being blamed. Escape. The Cradle. Lauryl. The Hag. His race through the city to put the ancient items into their proper places, creating a giant glyph in the city streets. The Heart, the Crown, the Paw, the Chalice. The Eye that was his own eye. The hag dying and the magic of the glyphs is absorbed from the city and the Keepers are revealed. Except for him. There is one glyph that remains – a key – burned into the back of his hand, still active and throbbing with power. The True Keeper. The Balance had been restored.
The images came faster after that, a girl much like himself, trying to steal from him. He takes her in and teaches her to be a Keeper. Time passes and eventually she takes his place as the city’s primary pain-in-the-ass while he takes a back seat and simply observes. Until now.
No, he thought, I’m not ready, yet. He struggled; fought with the overwhelming power that surrounded him, using every ounce of strength his had left, and then fought with will alone. He felt a moment of weakness and surged into it, using the remaining power of the glyph in his hand to break free. Not enough, he thought as he watched the string of paper-dolls that was his life shatter like so much confetti. He could only watch as bits of his life seems to sail past him and disappear into the darkness that quickly engulfed his consciousness as well.
Other things, both people and items, were drawn through the rip as well but they were of little consequence to the Primal. What mattered, the only thing that mattered, was him. The man struggled against the power that was the Primal, against himself, and for a brief but critical moment the Primal lost its grip. The essence of the man pulled free from the Primal just before the rift closed. Now it must wait for him to re-appear.
The Primal, had it lips, would have sighed.