The Sketch Rift: The Seal of Demons

Egodeath

"We're going home!"

Anibar rallied the Henderians in her vicinity, shouting at an uncertain future they entertained more readily as subconscious concept than material reality. That eventuality advanced by the minute, and denial edged off the table, for today – October 18th, 2101 – was the embarking day.

Nothing intact remained with which to exchange farewells. Hendera was but a sour memory and the Facility a sourer one, due for burial centuries postmortem, embedding their carcasses into the Waise Chain for excavation that may never arrive in a thousand generations, doubled, tripled, derelict. Ironically, the outside world's refusal to revisit this stretch of coast, borne from individuals' fear and ignorance, was its wisest collective judgment; these ruins were not theirs to rummage through, and not a soul – almost – would linger to try.

The tinkerers possessed a measly interval, between finalizing the steamboats here at Sogbury and their maiden voyage therefrom, during which to deliberate how to recycle Hemingway's Vorren. Initially they considered retrofitting their fleet with it, lightening travel's load with pseudo-Sulukridger magic, but that would prove too arduous, especially according to the food supply. Additionally, loading it onboard for no purpose and few inventive prospects risked unleashing the Rift should they be discovered. They settled on returning the Vorren to the last Fviron, who reimplemented it in the Thief's tomb, having resolved to stay there despite multiple earnest offers. It was Nathaurus who convinced them to let it be, and now it was she who oversaw the first and final boarding at her beloved Sogbury.

She hobbled along the pier and surveyed the scene, one hand on her hip and the other a visor against the sunrise. Emma and Marsh trailed her at close range lest she limp a foot too far, but all three pored over the figure they now confronted, who stood contented, observing the impending departure.

Moth did not budge to acknowledge them.

"Thank you, Ambassador," Nathaurus expressed genuine gratitude, only to hurl saliva at his feet, whereupon he finally turned. "There's your gesture."

An unnatural ache swelled within him, then faded, as they walked away, but Moth cared not whether it was the Soulless one's doing. He had transcended earthly grudges.

He kept motionless in thought, a statue residual of a people moving on, as the steamboats neared capacity and the last Henderians crossed planks onto deck. Many of those peering past the railings fixated on Moth, who declined to reciprocate their scrutiny until, during some preliminary nautical checks, someone disembarked and strolled toward him at the pier's extremity. Moth's arms defaulted to his pockets, and his stance swiveled to meet her.

"This is not the last laugh," Anibar proclaimed. "By choosing to stay, you denied us the satisfaction of exiling you – which, frankly, we did arrange – but even on the waves, our prospects for survival are better than yours. You're inheriting a wasteland."

She squinted candidly at him, utterly inscrutable.

"Why?"

Moth raised an eyebrow. "Why ask of my wellbeing?"

"...Only humanity," Anibar hesitated. "We feed the mouth that bites us."

"...I've suffered some... introspection recently," he addressed her probing. "The timeframe of my ordeal was as rapid as they come. One day, a katana, and reconciliation on the next. How I concluded what I did, though, neither of us remember... so do we care?"

"We're captivated," she shot him a knowing look. "I speak for all Hendera when I tell you there's... tragedy in your eyes. You've learned from it, but you also taught: took a burden on our behalf. Not a needed one... but hefty. In that way, at least, you achieved your goal after all."