Sustaining The King's Life 83 Savior

Every corner of the sewers was etched with a sob which echoed subtle whimpers across the haunting silence; a voice was calling a name. Faustina heeded to the resounding cries. The marionette was twisting and spiraling inhumanly—it carried a sad, sewn mouth which did not open even with speech nor cries.
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Orwell mentioned the topic of marionettes in one of his lessons, as far as Faustina could muster to evoke. They were Warlock dolls created from dark magic by imbuing a spell and an 'essence' together. Orwell did not delve into the explanation of marionettes, but Faustina had inscribed it down— 'these puppets— not only can they generate illusions and nightmares, but also they can impose harm with series of consequential patterns; they could cause death, even without directly dealing it.

She remembered what Sheila had told her. Back on the sacred grounds of the castle, Sheila conjured a magic and they discovered that Faustina, apparently, had relations with a 'devil'—a marionette, to be precise. Faustina was being followed and was hoodwinked. The voices she can hear as she 'drifted,' and the dreams she had had been the fruits of the marionette's trick.

Even until now it wasn't clear to her—everything—she could not decipher how in the world did a marionette tried to do something to her, among many others—Sheila did not elucidate. The high priestess evidently wanted nothing to do with her, let alone explain the whole enchilada that materialized. Faustina was positive that Sheila was harboring an intense feeling of disapproval with Faustina's whole existence—and the way the king favored Faustina did not help Sheila's sentiments either. No one was there to explain what occurred—she was simply sent to train and study with the 'duty' or the task she must fulfill.

To follow blindly with no questions asked.

Faustina blinked as she stared back at the amethyst eyes looking at the depths of her soul; those purple gazes that had looked at her glamoured appearance with emotions so unreadable that it looked as if Ezekiel was peering on the abyss of her mind. Faustina thinned her lips.

"I don't know," she answered. Sheila told her that it might have been someone close to her who gave the warlock the vulnerability he so desired. Protection spells would deem to be useless due to the fact that Faustina was already tailed and Eula was already in the Forsaken's grasp. Eula's essence was enough to trick Faustina either to submission or death—if she would be too weak to discern what was the reality and a fragmented truth.

Orwell was unaware of Faustina's connections with the Forsaken or her dealings with a marionette—her nightmares and dreams that both remained in her mind and her journal. They were hidden safely in her palms. Faustina was the one in control of all her emotions but now she stared back to Ezekiel's amethyst eyes—inconveniently—she began to hear the marionette's voice taunting her.

Was she imagining things?

"The marionette is waiting for you," Ezekiel exclaims. "Or it is ordered to withdraw."

"Ordered to withdraw?" Owen asks. "'ave nev'r heard of such things,"

"Of course." Ezekiel says— "Marionettes were made to harm. Not to bring someone else alive."—stressing the final word. "It wants to take you, does it not? It won't attack,"

"It's calling me." Faustina says. "But I am not an idiot. I won't come with it."

The marionette plummeted to the surface, its body twisted in impossible angles. It looked like a doll with dislocated limbs. It stood up trembling, letting out horrid cries and screams.

"Faustina…"

"We can hear it," Ezekiel says.

"This means one thing," Owen adds, holding firm to his sword.

The marionette lurched forward, and then fire sparked as it conjured a magic circle from above. Faustina gasped and then Ezekiel chanted an unknown verse—a sentence—and then the magic circle dispelled. Faustina wanted to admire and inquire how could he dispel a magic if he had no medium.

Copious magic circles appeared—hexagram and pentagrams with the dim and haunting color of purple. Owen slashed them through with his sword. Owen and Ezekiel stood before Faustina, s.h.i.+elding her from detriment—the marionette.

"Kid, I'd buy ye some time, escape to north—then head to ze right tunnel, there'd be a ladder leading to one of ze—"

"We're not leaving you!" Faustina shouts.

The marionette was still crying as it conjures magic circles which was getting dispelled by Ezekiel.

"Yes ye're," Owen exclaims. "I'm cover'n up for Abe, I'm meant to protect ye,"

"W-what?"

Owen sighed. "'Tis hard to expl'n."

The marionette howled and then a purple fire soon appeared to its doll arm. Faustina parted her lips in surprise as Ezekiel sprinted to the puppet and tore its arm off, subsiding the fire.

"The sewer is bursting with methane!" Ezekiel exclaims, "we cannot survive the fire without an exit." He then withdrew from the marionette. "It would conjure fire again. You dealt a good damage to it. But the next fire would be from it. It would self-burst, if my prediction is right."

Owen grit his teeth.

"I'd buy ye time."

The marionette cried. "Faustina…"

Ezekiel stared at the crying Marionette, perplexed with its oddity.

"We're not leaving you here—I—"

"Tis good this thing's not that violent now I hurt it's lil a.r.s.e," Owen says. "So go! I can handle this!"

Ezekiel dashed towards Faustina, grabbing her hand as he leads her away, his witchlight to his hand. They were getting farther away from Owen, who held his sword firmly and was battling the marionette who wanted to follow Faustina. It was evident how it got aggressive, which made Ezekiel run faster. Faustina wanted to let go—wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h her hand back and ran back to Owen—but again, she found herself asking her own self.

Her voice challenging her own.

What good will it do if she ran back to Owen? Is he important to her? Why does she feel so worried to someone she just met in just a night?

Why is she letting herself be pulled by a person whom she just met, too?

No… why was she letting people make decisions in her own life?

Faustina stared blankly as her thoughts engulfed the depths of her mind. She could hear a taunt—a laughter—and a cry. She could not distinguish which is which and to whom they belonged to. The taunt—the mockery towards her were like painful truths being spoke with an honest lip, spouting flowers with thorns; Faustina heard a sweet voice asking her what was she doing—empathic and sympathetic tones, a voice laced with honey and orange blossoms.

Faustina thinned her lips and listened to the voices in her mind. Her ears were listening to a white noise, but her head was bombarded with dialogues and monologues of someone else—it was as if she was in a daydream. A daydream she made—voices belonging to her.

Again she had let herself be caught in the midst of a happenstance.

Again she wasn't the one to decide her fate.

Again she was saved.

Again… again… again.

She was forcing herself to understand, to think—to ruminate—telling her conscience that this was a matter of inevitability. She coerced her wavering heart with her own voice—with her own words laced with honey but stung like a poison.

It was inevitable. She needed a savior—she was powerless.

She was just Faustina; following orders—clinging to a task she did not question. Clinging into an ideology plenty with things and circ.u.mstances she did not understand, but followed nonetheless. She was a mindless adherent.

It was inevitable, she told herself.

I can't do anything, I have to let them decide for me, she whispers to her own ear.

"Faustina?" Ezekiel stops running as Faustina paused, remaining to her feet.

"We're coming back," Faustina mumbles, her voice sounding clearer to her, stopping the whispers on the back of her mind. "I know how to stop the marionette."