A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

Wind rushed past his ears and its roar shattered into a thousand distortions. The chorus kept warning him that he was falling. They were practically screaming. The world orbited around him before it was obscured by green hair that whipped against his face. His wings caught the wind, redirecting him, jerking him this way and that. He slammed into the cliff and stars danced across his vision, momentarily blinding him to the terrifying descent. Before they could clear, several more impacts struck his chest and side, sending him into a roll.

Dave screamed instructions into his ear, but his voice was lost amid the chaos. The wind threw Vincent against the jagged rock one last time and something snapped. When the stars cleared, blue streams dissipated into the air and his wings flopped like a broken umbrella.

Instantly he remembered the void, he remembered the presence that had attacked him, transformed his body. He recalled the brutal deconstruction, helpless to do anything but scream, until even his vocal cords were torn apart. It was a memory linked by pain, uttered in a cry that vanished in the wind. The fractured lands hurling towards him orbited once more, their fissures radiated seething black agony, transforming the grasses into blood.

Then the entire world jolted as something struck the back of his head. There was another snap, then he lost all sensation. Like a rag doll, he fell to the whim of gravity and aerodynamics. And like a rag doll he hung when the monstrous red shape dived towards him, catching him in its talons.

All of his senses were caught in a pulse, a noise in his ears that rose and fell to the crescendo of a sine wave. He was staring toward the ground hundreds of feet below, watching a sapphire rain descend toward it before dissipating into a mist. The cage of keratin that held him aloft jerked upwards, accompanied by the sound of beating wings. His limp arms swayed uselessly with the rhythm, and he realized it was from his fingertips and snout that the rain fell. But he did not feel anything, he could not even feel his lungs.

Dave tore his way out of the cliff-side and mouthed some sort of derision. A moment later, the words arrived to him, muffled by water and interference. Then the phantom fell to his demise before scattering into diamonds. The diamonds became discarded television sets which phased into the cliff. Large wings beat the air and he began to rise in increments. Soon, the creature deposited him on a bed of grass.

The sky raced to confront him as he was rolled on his side, staring down with its purple and red eyes in judgment. Strange creatures raced to him, the younger ones began to weep, one hid its eyes behind its hands. “The Packers lost,” a phantom explained. The elder cried out to him, its golden eyes alert with fear. It shouted something to one of the young ones, an exchange that went unheard. The young one departed in a hurry.

There was a vibration so small, that if Vincent had not inhabited his body, he would not know it had occurred. But it happened in his neck, a crack so subtle, yet its effect so profound he had no choice but to scream. He felt everything, he felt the broken ribs, the pierced lungs, the fractured wing, all of the cuts on his arms and legs. But all that came from his mouth was a morbid gurgle. Something warm bubbled from the side of his mouth and trailed down his cheeks.

“YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!” a phantom screamed into his ear as an accusation. “YOU BROKE YOUR NECK!”

“Experiment.”

“Lab rat.”

“Insects!!!!”

Cockroaches danced across his vision, walking impossibly over the sky, showering him with their malice before dissolving into nothingness. He was traveling through his own body and yet he was laying on the ground, a vessel of agony. He could see trillions of tiny cilia sprouting from his bone as though trying to pull it together, ants burrowed into his skin and bit into his nerves. A wall of static crawled in front of his eyes, nullifying the agony. A digitized voice kept repeating the word “mother” over and over again, while the radio screeched its music in the background. He was nothing but pain and madness.

His face laid against the ground, staring at the wooded area, a pool of sapphire spreading from his open maw, turning the dirt into blue water. The demon with golden eyes was shouting inaudible curses. From behind him came a monstrosity with feathers the color of blood, running from the trail with a smaller creature in its mouth. It dropped the trembling youth onto the ground, it ran over to its grandparent holding a tightly sealed stone vial.

“Poison!” the chorus warned.

A skull and crossbones momentarily flashed, superimposed across the vial's surface. The elder turned around and snatched the vial from his child and carried it over. With trembling hands, he carefully unsealed the vessel, Vincent's mouth opened and shut, gaping in protest, spraying the ground with bubbling azure spittle.

“IT'S POISON!” they screamed as the vial was held over his mouth.

The elder forced his maw upwards and allowed a single drop to fall from the vessel. When it struck his tongue, it flooded his nose with a subtle scent reminiscent of flowers. It was accompanied by a strange warmth not too unlike the burn of alcohol, but with none of the pain.

Instead of being confined to his mouth, it began to sink into his cheeks. He had a vision of fire flowing through his veins, only it was not a conflagration that brought destruction. Instead, where it spread, the pain began to disappear. The unseen flames began to lick his wounds, mending shattered bones and reversing torn tissue.

“POISON!!!”

“IT’S A LIE! STOP!”

“YOU’RE ON FIRE...”

Vincent recovered sensation in his arms and legs, lifting them to his eyes as the flames continued to spread, allowing agony to bleed out. The cuts along his flesh were being sucked back into the body, their crevices closing, flesh melding without seams. Nerves reconnected, bones fused back together, his spine resewed itself. He rolled over onto his stomach and struggled to push off the ground. The fire reset his knees and flowed through his legs, expelling all the lacerations in odd black wisps, as if the injuries were impurities that needed to be cleansed. It climbed up his chest, spread through his arms, wings, neck...finally, it spread to his head.

“No...no, NO!! GET OUT!”

It was private, his mind was his own. But the fire disregarded his command and swarmed into his consciousness where it confronted every facet of his identity. Every voice he had ever known screamed in protest at the invasion, hurling all kinds of vitriol as the flames flooded his dreams and memories. Every muscle in Vincent's body seized uncontrollably as though something were tampering with its signals. He could feel a second transformation occurring, one that sent him into a violent fit of coughing. He expelled black wisps from his maw, rejecting impurities in the form of smoke. The the flames were finished, they left his body.

“What...” he whispered, clutching the sides of his head while staring at the ground.

A centipede crawled across the dirt, its legs moving in undulating waves. When it encountered the pool of blue blood and saliva, it reared up to inspect the air and changed its direction, its body forming a parabola on the dirt. A gust of wind licked the trees, rustling leaves against one another while the trunks groaned in protest. Silence punctuated the space between sounds.

“Vinsch...” Xalix said.

He spoke in a gentle voice, but his words were clear and sharp, startling Vincent, who crawled away from the creature, and away from the beast that had saved him. He could not think, he could not acknowledge Xalix, not after what just happened. The beast, Strix laid down on his stomach and sighed.

Vincent stumbled toward a tree, he felt the roughened texture of the bark against his palm, he could smell the resin which flowed in thick drips along the branches. His feet dug into the dirt, their scuffles came to his ears unfettered. The hiss of his breath vibrated through his skull. This entire world assaulted him with its smells, sights, and sounds with unprecedented clarity, as though he were using all five of his senses for the first time. It was just a dream, that's what logic dictated. He was in a coma, hooked up to machines, suffering a severe delusion. Delusion?

“Vinsch, are you–”

“–What the fuck...was that...what just happened?” Vincent stared at the ground.

“You...you can speak now?” Xalix asked.

“Speak...” Vincent repeated, barely registering what Xalix had said, “what...just what...in the hell is going on?!”

“Was your muteness caused by some curse...or disease? The Triasat…it must have cured it.” Xalix hedged.

“Disease...Triasat? Dave...where did you go?”

“Dave?” Xalix repeated.

“Dave...it's talking to me,” Vincent muttered deliriously, “I just felt...I broke every...bone...this...cannot be happening. What the fuck?!”

He began to laugh softly, but there was no humor in the sound.

“Weaver fire...you are alive, you are well, boy,” Xalix spoke in a tone that he clearly hoped would be reassuring. But there was also an air of disbelief to the creature’s voice. “I had my doubts about the Nectar of Triasat...but it, I can't believe–”

“–This is sick,” Vincent cut him off. Xalix was a symptom of his madness just like Dave was. Him, his grandchildren, and the beast he called Strix. “Dave! Where the hell are you?!”

Dave did not answer, neither did any of the usual phantoms. It was as if they had gone silent out of spite, leaving Vincent to his own devices. They were just hiding in the woods, he knew it. Any moment now one of them would observe his breakdown. But all he heard were the natural sounds of wildlife.

“Dammit Dave! Say something!”

“Dave?” Xalix said, looking around, “What does that mean?”

It finally registered with Vincent that he was actually able to speak, and the creature now understood him.

“It doesn't make any sense...” Vincent said, shaking his head. “This is absolute...insanity.”

“Vinsch–”

“–Please...I have no idea...what in the hell you are...why the hell I can now speak.”

“Come,” Vincent felt a hand on his shoulder. He almost threw it off. “I do not know what addles you, but I would much rather put distance between you and the cliff.”

Vincent allowed himself to be lead down the path. He saw Micah and Theomus standing nearby with raw eyes, traumatized by the experience. Ahead of them lay Xalix's home, they were about to reach it when Strix flew in from the opening in the trees and made a gentle landing in front of the entrance. Vincent immediately tried to pull back.

“Get that damn thing away from me!” he snapped.

“Strix!” Xalix shouted at the creature. “He...I don't know. He is afraid of you. That...that will have to wait dammit! Please...” He rubbed his forehead in frustration, muttering something about messengers. “Let him rest.”

Strix didn’t return to the sky, but he walked around the perimeter of Xalix's home. Vincent could feel the vibrations from the creature's impacts against the ground. As soon as it disappeared from sight, Xalix opened the door and washed his hands and feet off in the basin, asking that Vincent do the same. When Micah and Theomus followed behind, Xalix stopped them both.

“Go with Strix.” he said.

“Why...” Micah asked. Vincent was drawn to the fire pit despite it lacking a fire.

“Micah!” Xalix barked. Vincent heard the creature collect himself before speaking in a much gentler tone. “I just want you and your brother to be with Strix right now. Do not ask me why. Do not...”

Vincent did not turn to see what had happened, he did not need to. The hushed whispers coming from Xalix told him everything: the brothers were devastated by the event they had witnessed and they were weeping. Or at least Micah was. Xalix spoke in a muted yet comforting inflection, but his words passed over Vincent. They were irrelevant, meaningless considering the circumstances. A hidden draft picked up the ash from bottom of the pit, creating from it a miniature vortex.

“–alive. Strix brings word from Meldohv Syredel. But I–” There was a protest from one of the boys, followed by gentle shushing.

The vortex dissolved into the air and disappeared like a sigh of disbelief. Vincent wanted to disappear with it, simply vanish from existence at the slightest gust of wind. The silence which followed haunted him, but he didn’t know why. He kept muttering the phrase “What the fuck” to himself over and over again.

“–wait right outside the door. I will be with you, don't worry.” Xalix said, “I'm the one who should be crying. You smeared snot all over me.”

Eventually, Xalix managed to comfort his grandchildren to some degree. Vincent heard their departure, which was marked by a sigh. The door creaked on its hinges, closing the light which poured over the floor. The tapping of claws against the floor marked Xalix's approach. After wiping off his garment, he took a seat next to Vincent, holding setting the winter jacket between them. Apparently he had removed it from Micah.

“Vinsch, look at me.” he said.

“Vince. Not Vinsch.” Vincent clasped onto the jacket.

“Vince?”

“Yup.”

“Vince,” Xalix said, “look at me.”

Hesitant to obey, Vincent turned his head to face Xalix. The creature's profile revealed itself in unprecedented detail as if he were seeing it for the very first time. Where there were supposed to be whites to the creature's eyes, there instead was a darkened blue, almost black, which contrasted with the golden irises. Sacks of the scale-like flesh hung under his eye-sockets, marking his age. A wart dotted the top of his left cheek. The exposed sections of the horns that protruded from the back of his skull were chipped and cracked. His brows were furrowed in either anger or distress, perhaps both. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it. Then he got up and headed towards the door.

“Wait,” Vincent said with a trembling voice, he wanted to get some answers. “You checked my eyes...and my uh...nostrils, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you had not gone mad.” He closed the door behind him before Vincent could ask any more questions.

All that remained was silence, and Vincent did not know what to do in it. He headed toward his room and began to pace back and forth. It was a chance for him to collect himself and consider what in the hell just happened. He waited for Dave to provide some feedback, but Dave said nothing. He took a few breaths until he calmed down. This world did not exist. He was still human, he was still in a coma, he was still recovering from the car crash.

What had been that substance Xalix had given to him, how had it healed all of his wounds? Why was his mind so sharp now? It was as if some sort of fog had been lifted from his cognition and unveiled clarity. He felt quick, swift, and capable in thought..

His train of thought was interrupted when Xalix called his name from down the hallway. The creature was waiting for him, sitting next to a freshly-lit fire. In a tired voice he asked Vincent to sit down. Micah and Theomus were not around, perhaps they were still with Strix. How Xalix could ever let the children he was responsible for get near such a grotesque creature was beyond understanding.

“Are you well?” Xalix asked.

“Don't know how to answer that.” Vincent put his hands close to the flames, allowing the heat to bite into the back of his palms, withdrawing when it got too hot. The cackling of the burning wood sounded too crisp, too clear. In between the spattering of embers was a shrill hiss of trapped water spitting from the ends of the logs.

“Triasat Nectar–” Xalix withdrew the stone vial which had been used to save Vincent’s life from his pocket, “–is very precious. Miraculous...mythical. Never believed the stories until...today. Any injury...” he held it up in front of his snout, his brows furrowed as if accusing the bottle of some crime, “any illness, cured at a single drop. The vial right here is worth an entire kingdom. Or at least it was.”

“Where'd you buy it?” Vincent asked numbly, unsure of what to say. He should be thrilled to be able to talk to Xalix, finally. Instead, he was simply flat.

“Buy?” Xalix glared at him. “You don't buy the nectar. It shows up when it's 'needed'. Or so that's what I’ve been taught.” Daggers filled the creature's voice. “The flower that I harvested this from showed up right after my son and his wife died. It–” The creature clamped his mouth shut and stared at the flames, a tortured expression appeared across his snout before he was able to choke it down. “I was saving this in case one of those two got...but now it's useless to me. Take it.” He thrust it into Vincent's hands. “It will only work for you.”

Vincent stared at the creature, not knowing what he should think. Xalix was not looking at him, he was glaring at the fire.

“I swore at it!” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I did not sleep, my grief kept me awake.” It was remembering something painful, just as a human being would. “That's when I saw the glow. I went outside to investigate it. That's when I saw the Triasat. It could not be mistaken for anything else, the glow of its petals and the way the nectar 'wept' from the flower...it was just like...just like stories. It showed up right after their parents died...”

Xalix spoke so silently Vincent could hardly hear him, but he recognized the silence. It was the restraint of grief, the only way to remain coherent when you were on the verge of a breakdown was to whisper, otherwise the cries would escape. Xalix's shoulders rose and fell with his erratic breathing.

“None of the healers could find a cause of their sickness...” Xalix scraped his claws against stone as if to channel his pain into the ground, “Never felt so powerless. All I could do was watch as they...and then...they...and then that damn flower showed up! After they succumbed to their illness. Mocking me!!!”

Without warning, he leapt up and knocked over the tripod in a fit of rage. It smacked the stone floor with a loud clang like that of a bell, spilling its contents over the place. Vincent reacted by uttering a profanity and backing away from the raging creature, not knowing what to think or how to react.

“I did not 'need' it when they had died, I needed it when they were alive!” he uttered in a half shout, half cry, his throat constricted by grief. He spoke his words as though he had been holding onto them for years, silent accusations which, until now, have gone unspoken. “Those two...they don't need an old man like me! They need one of their parents! I can't...” Xalix took a few moments to collect himself, his entire body was quivering. “I...collected the nectar...because I thought if something happened to one of those kids, they could be saved. But then you showed up. And now it's yours...it's 'bonded' to you,” Xalix stated as an accusation, “You speak now, can't you?”

“Y-yeah,” Vincent stuttered. “I'm sorry. I–”

“Your mind is clear,” Xalix interrupted. “Do you remember anything?”

“Yes, but–”

“–Then speak! All channelers in Mid-Admoran are accounted for. Yet the Siekh at Meldohv Syredel have no idea who you are! They don't have any channelers on Lorix's Observatory! They tried to contact you, but they were 'repelled'! I don't know the lore of the Telen, but I hear such a thing has never been done! Strix believes you are a danger to me and my grandchildren! I have no reason to doubt him, especially after what you did to my hand!” he listed off his litany of accusations. “You show every sign of madness yet you do not weep the tears of the Bane! I saved your life twice, I brought you into my home even after you attacked me! You owe me truth! Speak! Are you Jalharen, or are you rogue?! Who are you?!”

“Listen...” Vincent closed his eyes and clenched his jacket, the accusations were unfair. After everything he had been through, he did not deserve the guilt. “Listen...I'm sorry for your ‘children’ and ‘that’.” he gestured to the vial.

“Then speak!”

Vincent got to his feet and glared at Xalix, “Would you shut the fuck up and let me?! I did not ask for any of this!” He gestured to the surroundings. “I didn't want to end up in your 'world' and I sure as hell don't want this...” He grabbed a fold of the skin on his arm and pinched it. “This...THIS ISN'T ME! I'm not a fucking...I'm not part of your species!”

“What do you mean?” Xalix demanded, “Speak sense!”

“Whatever the hell your species, your race, call yourselves!” Vincent snapped, “You! Your entire species! I'm not one of you!”

For a moment, he scrambled to find words.

“I was just minding my own business! I was heading back from the IRS office when my car lost control and hit the guard-rail. Before I even could do anything, a-a fucking deer took a dive right into my windshield just...right out of nowhere!” He stumbled over his words, “It got me in my chest....and then this thing kidnapped me. It turned me into this!”

He put more emphasis into the skin pulling, trying to show Xalix the cage of flesh which covered his entire body. “Then it spat me out of Lorix's Eye! That's when you found me! That’s what I was trying to convey with those stupid fucking drawings!”

Vincent could see that all he was doing was confusing Xalix. He became more frantic, more desperate.

“I'm an alien!” he said, “Do you know what that is?! I'm an alien from outer space! I'm from a different world! A different dimension! Something grabbed me from Earth and it turned me into this! I-I...” He picked up the jacket held it out. “This is the jacket I was wearing when I crashed! L-look at it! Go ahead, take it! Try to put it on!”

Xalix scowled at him then he reached out and took the jacket from Vincent's grasp. “Why?” he demanded.

“Humor me.”

Xalix opened the jacket up and frowned. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“It does not have holes for wings.”

“Exactly! I'm not supposed to have wings!” Vincent said, “My back is completely flat! There's no need to make room for them because they don't exist! And...here, look...,” he untied the shirt from around his waist and held it up to his chest. “Look! This was the shirt I was wearing! The back of it was torn open when the wings...they tore through the fabric! And...and...” He looked around for the boot, spotted it on the table, and ran over to retrieve it.

“Look! This is one of the shoes I was wearing!” He peeled back the sole. “Us humans don't have claws on our feet! That's why it's broken, it had no room for the claws! And look! Those red stains? That's my damn blood!”

His voice cracked at those last few words. There were no voices or hallucinations to hide him from the violence of his transformation.

“This...is my blood!” he repeated, hyperventilating. “It took me and it did this to me! Don't you understand?!? That’s why I couldn't walk or speak! This isn't my body, I don't know how to use it, my brain doesn’t know how to use it! I have no idea what the fuck is going on, I don't know why I could suddenly start to understand you! It makes no fucking sense to me! And...and...”

“Vince,” Xalix whispered, “Look at me again.”

Vincent stared at Xalix, who was scrutinizing his eyes and nose. “You're worried I'm mad, right?” Xalix had done the same inspection several times. “That’s what you’re testing for? Well guess what? I am mad!” Vincent half-laughed, half-shouted. “I've been mad since I was 5!”

“What?” Xalix muttered.

“–My parents thought it was normal 5-year-old behavior at first,” Vincent continued. “talking to imaginary friends! It wasn't until the voices in my head told me to kill the dog that my parents knew something was wrong. So spare me your examination, I'm a fucking lunatic! In fact,” Vincent looked around the room as if to spot the absent voices. “Why the fuck are you all so silent? You wouldn't shut the fuck up from the moment I arrived. Nothing? Fine,” He looked back at a bewildered Xalix. “Usually they aren't this quiet. The voices, I mean.”

“I...if you were mad,” Xalix whispered, confusion racked his voice. “You would be dying. Your eyes and nostrils would be leaking blood...”

“What?” Vincent stared at the creature. “Well...shit. If only that happened on my world. It would have spared me a lot of trouble. Seriously, you people die if you go insane? Or is it some form of dragon rabies? Did I appear in the middle of some sort of pandemic?”

“It is not a disease...” Xalix was clearly struggling to process what Vincent was saying. He was angry and confused.

“Fuck!” Vincent closed his eyes and pressed the boot against his forehead. “I don't want to be here! Look...I'm sorry about your son and his wife. If I...pretend that you are human, I can...see you as...as a bitter old man who lost everything. And then you have some weirdo show up, possibly endangering you and your...grandkids.”

He tried to sit down, but he almost lost his balance and tripped over the stool. Only by grabbing onto the table was he able to stop his fall. After regaining his composure, he put the boot on his lap and looked at the floor.

“I'm scared man,” he said. Then he shook his head. “Scared...that's stupid as hell. This whole situation is too ridiculous to be scared over. The only thing scary about this is how embarrassing this whole fucked up scenario is. But this is...by far some of the weirdest shit I've ever experienced. That's...why I attacked you. I was afraid. I don't know what you are, I don't know what the hell Strix is, I don't know what a channeler is or who those people you contacted are. Any moment now the voices could return. Or hell, I could go into another catatonic state and I won’t even remember this conversation afterward. I'm shocked I'm even lucid enough to speak so clearly. It's like my schizophrenia has been cured.”

As soon as he said those words, he felt as if he’d been hit in the chest. He blinked at the vial he was holding in hands, the vessel holding the Triasat nectar, and lifted it up. No, he thought as he glared at it, stunned at the audacious suggestion. He gawked at it in half-amazement and half disgust. No way, it was impossible. There was no fucking way.

“I...” Xalix broke the silence, “If you go down the hallway to the right. The first chamber to the left has in it a wash basin. You have worn those garments for several days and you are covered in dirt and blood. I will leave a new set of clothes right outside.”

“Have you heard a word I said?”

“I heard...” Xalix nodded. “But I am old, and I am tired. And I am 'bitter'. I am not in the mood to entertain your strange claims tonight. I have two terrified youths to comfort and a messenger to calm. But what I can comprehend is the grime which covers you.”

Vincent put the boot back on the table, shrugged his shoulders and stood up. He did not know what else to do, he explained everything he could. And Xalix was right, he was a mess. As he passed by the creature, the air was so thick with tension he could almost cut it with a knife. Before he reached the hallway, Xalix spoke.

“I don’t know why Strix scares you,” he said, “but he also saved your life.”

“Right.” Vincent said, unsure of whether he was trying to comfort or accuse.

He followed the hallway and entered the chamber that Xalix spoke of. A single luminescent crystal illuminated it from an alcove in the wall. Unlike the entrance to the bedroom, which only had a curtain, this chamber was fitted with an actual door, wrought crudely from wood. In the floor to the right was a basin, carved in clay. It was no larger than a utility sink and it was fed by a hole in the wall, which was currently plugged with a wooden cap. Attached to the inside of the door was a slab of reflective metal, polished to a mirror-like sheen, but mottled with imperfections.

He withdrew the cap from its hole, releasing a stream of cold water. Xalix most likely tapped into a spring or had some sort of well right outside the wall. Unsure of how much water he should use, he waited until the basin was filled about halfway before he plugged the tap. After some hesitation, he tried to take off his shirt, only to find that it was caught on the wings. He realized that since his arrival, he had never truly inspected how it was held together. After briefly consulting the mirror and trying not to focus on the body itself, he saw the means by which the shirt was connected. Two rows of buttons held together pieces of fabric underneath each wing.

At first, he thought the positioning of the buttons required him to awkwardly reach behind his own back. But they were arranged so that they almost rested along his sides, which meant he could cross an arm over his chest, reach around the opposite side and undo the buttons. After awkwardly struggling with the stone anchors, he felt the garment come loose, allowing him to lift it over his head. He did not bother to look at his chest. In fact, he covered the mirror with the shirt so that he would not accidentally gaze upon it.

This world continued to reveal more of its demented design, finding new ways to torment him. By now, the voices would usually be screaming at him. Static would be diffusing itself over his mind, making him less aware of whatever circumstances he found himself in.

He would not be aware of the piece of volcanic rock that he picked up from the floor, which he now used to scrub grime off of flesh that wasn't his own, yet flesh which he unwillingly inherited. Nausea crawled its way into his stomach as the cold water ran down his arms and chest.

The wings cast shadows along the wall as if to remind him of the mockery. With some concentration, he managed to fold them. This new level of control added another layer of disgust to his dismay. On one hand, he knew he should be glad that he could now manipulate them somewhat. They were like an extra pair of overly-sized hands that sprouted out of his back.

A movement outside told him Xalix had laid out the extra set of clothes. He departed without saying a word, which was probably the best. Yet it left Vincent to the deafening silence, punctuated by the occasional splash of water. He tried not to think about the Triasat. Schizophrenia...could not be cured.

He scooped his hands into the basin and splashed his face, palming the misshapen mouth in his hand. He felt its elongated contours with unprecedented clarity and saw claws gripping his bite. The green mane, weighed down by water and blood, clumped to the side of his face.

Flakes of coagulation broke loose and clung to his cheeks. A few strands trailed into the side of his mouth, forcing him to spit them out. One of his wings brushed the sullied shirt that was hanging on the mirror, knocking it off. Startled, Vincent turned towards the source of the noise before he could stop himself.

The blue flesh covered alien contours, which were rendered so perfectly that nobody could ever tell they had once been human. The wings looked like natural extensions of the back, their muscles wrapped around his sides and clasped onto a ridge that ran down his chest, a keel bone. It was a wretched design that implied humanity yet drifted off towards being bestial.

Vincent inched over to the door and opened it just enough to reach out and grab the clothes. Then he pulled them in and closed the door. Biting his lip so that the pain would distract him from overthinking the situation, he slipped on the new garment without drying himself. Then he figured out how to completely remove the pants and put on the new ones.

His mind drifted to pictures of a laboratory in which medical experiments floated in translucent tanks filled with saline solution, their limbs twisted and contorted by whatever chemicals were injected into them at birth. He pictured himself returning to Earth with the form he inhabited now. No doubt he would be shot and displayed in one of those tubes. He rolled up the bloodied clothes and, unsure of what to do with them, carried them out the door.

“Uhh...” he said out loud, hoping Xalix could hear him.

He stopped when he heard a low humming emanating from down the hallway. He recognized the voice as Xalix's and considered going to ask him where to put the clothes. But the nature of the melody was reminiscent of a lullaby. Most likely, Xalix was attempting to sing a traditional alien tune to put the brothers to sleep. Vincent didn’t want to interrupt him, so he carried the clothes with him. He walked over to the fire pit, which still held a lambent glow, and picked up the vial of “Triasat” nectar.

When he reached his room, he found an inconspicuous corner in which to dump the clothes. After setting the elixir on the floor, where it had no possibility of breaking unless something heavy crushed it, he crawled onto the bed, uttered a four-letter profanity to summarize his situation, and laid down.