Tomorrow and Tomorrow: Tales from Aquila

*"She should have died hereafter;*

*There would have been a time for such a word.*

*— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,*

*Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,*

*To the last syllable of recorded time;*

*And all our yesterdays have lighted fools*

*The way to dusty death.*

*Out, out, brief candle!*

*Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player*

*That struts and frets his hour upon the stage*

*And then is heard no more. It is a tale*

*Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury*

*Signifying nothing."*

**Tomorrow and Tomorrow**

tales from Aquila

I

*The Storm*

I watched the millions of raindrops assail the cobblestone street, wincing at the sight of their impact like sparks upon the earth. In the upper levels, the torrents of water would flow uneventfully into the gutters, not lingering, the passer-bys paying no mind as they clutched their parasols and wide-brimmed tricornes to keep away the downpour. Things were different in the Warrens, that quiet and unlit neighborhood as far from the city's Capitol as Aquila is from the unbeating heart of the Void. The street was invisible under the callous stream of black water which carried with it all which was not bolted to the foundation, forcing my fellows and me to keep to the slightly elevated natural sidewalks which hung precariously over the raging river, that unnatural natural feature which forced itself into existence upon the onset of every thunderstorm. My eyelids became heavier by the minute - thanks in no small part to my chronic sleeplessness borne from regular night terrors, aye - but most of all as a result of the factory chemicals whose colony upon my face had probably tripled in size from the previous year.

So exhausted was I that I nearly missed the horrifying event unfold not a meter before mine own eyes, the shape of the man in front of me quivering unnaturally and then disappearing into the storm.

"SHITE!" he screamed, his yelp muffled slightly by the mouthful of foul water he'd taken in upon his fall. I nearly slipped as well when I came to an abrupt stop, prompting the worker behind me to bump awkwardly upon my strained back.

"Wha' in Emanation's name's come upon ye?" the man behind me demanded. "Summat possessed ye  to get the lot of us swept'in t'the lochs?" I centered myself and came to a crouch, ignoring the man's protestations. There the fallen man was, holding on to the sidewalk for dear life as the river in the street threatened to sweep him away. His nigh-frostbitten face was nearly petrified in a deathly cringe apart from his rapidly darting eyes, scanning anything he might possibly get a grip on to save him from meeting a slow and brutal fate in the growing Tidals. My time in this city of strangers may have availed me little in terms of finance, but it had shown me in more certain terms than ever before that in times such as these, who you knew and didn't know didn't make a lick of difference. When lives are at stake, ideas like friendship or allegiance become irrelevant, as we become primal. Taking even the most ephemeral glimpse unto the stranger's panicked eyes, I knew this man better than even his closest friends, if for but a moment.

"Grab my hand!" I exclaimed, discarding my purse of expensive industrial tools and vials upon the soaked ground so as to proffer both my hands in aid. He instinctively reached for my person with one hand but found himself woefully unable to reach me, the harsh torrents dragging his entirety hopelessly in the opposute direction. Gritting my teeth and sighing from the pinching of the nerves on my bruised spine, I extended both of my hands as far as they could be coerced into reaching, and almost to my surprise was able to grip the man's sleeve, and then his boney arm, tugging with all the strength the eternals could grant me. He finally came ashore, shaking from the chill and nearly immobile from the tearing of his joints at the hands of the rapids.

"I cannae walk..." the man coughed, wretching up more than a few specks of crimson blood which quickly washed away in the rain, lost. I regarded my drenched purse, as well as the impatient prodding of the worker who still stood behind me. Against my initial judgment, I took the poor man into my arms and carried him with lamentable effort to the relatively dry spot at the end of the street where the speedrail platform almost towered above the cobblestone like a gleaming city upon the hill. We finally pushed open its gates and crawled uneventfully to the closest bench, the few onlookers paying us little mind.

"Thank ye... thank ye," he attempted to say, though his garbled words amounted to little more than foul honks punctuated with seal coughs. There we sat for some time catching our breaths, him shaking himself back to life as my eyes did wander listfully back upon the perilous street, where I knew I would find my tools no more should I attempt to double back, only its sad imprint upon the grass having long washed away with the blood.

He at last came to and studied his savior graciously, though as his pupils adjusted and were able to regard the distinctive tattoos upon my ungloved hands for the first time, his demeanor changed.

"Gods be good," he started, incredulous and building rage. "Get'cher bleedin' heretic hands offa me, cur! Ya should count yerself lucky I don't cast ye into the waves myself, darin' to show yer face 'ere!" I opened my mouth in protest, but before the faintest word of reconciliation could be born he had already begun to limp off toward the speedrail with remarkable haste and dexterity given his condition. My eyes followed him sorrowfully, the lump in my throat hardening. With a disdainful spit, the stranger for whom I had risked life and limb had gone, leaving me the sole resident of the drenched city upon the hill.

I started home, unsure what words I could even offer her in explanation of my actions. It would be appropriate enough to observe that along with nigh everything else I'd long held dear, the city's torrents had finally washed away my livelihood as well, along with hers. The speedrail hummed loudly above me as I walked thoughtlessly back to the hovel. A reminder that a whole world was above me and naught but stone and dirt lay below me. I looked upon the fall of the raindrops again, its sparks the same as those of the factory machines.

II
--

*The Hunger*

You have two options once you come to the realization that every breath you take could very well be your last.

"FOR DREITON!"

Some men surrender themselves to despair. The acknowledgment that in spite of all your striving, every sacrifice you made, every adversity you'd overcome, in the end it's all the same. In that way, are we not all slaves to the choices made for us by our forefathers? Forced to fend for ourselves in a world designed to break us, living from one brief moment of solace to another all punctuated by a cruel tale of lies, treachery, broken promises, and forgotten aspirations. Whatever gods that once roamed this rended rock from whom we might beg divine succor had long fallen silent. Even if it were not so and man still shared this world with begins bourne of the heavens, would they even pretend to care for the plight of the mortals? I have not once reached down to aid a suffering fly bereft of a wing.

"GODS HELP US, IT'S HIM!"

But then there are others who delight at the prospect of their fragile mortality. Never knowing whether, by the sunset, you will be remembered as the hunter or the prey. Nations, faiths, creeds, even our most sacred bonds - they are all consigned to the void, as with all things. Aye, this broken star hath neglected to provide us with a true purpose and saddled our every limb with innumerable locks of iron. If we have no choice but to live our ephemeral lives always upon the precipice of the eternal Dark, I would sunder those chains. I would fain spend every waking moment immersed in the primal thrill of the chase. I would savor every pang of fear, anguish, and sorrow from my quarry. I would be as a black wolf in the night, trusting nothing save for my own hunger as I drank deep the blood of the unworthy. Such was my moniker by which the peoples of this city - fattened and lazy from years of gluttony satisfied by vain decadence subsidized by a legacy of colonial terror and excess - had known me for so long. In such a bleak existence, what else did we have?

Amidst the turbulent sea of chaos churning with a sinister chorus of crumbling walls and the cries of war, I drew in a labored breath. The sensation was familiar to me. Every fiber of your being pulsing with adrenaline as you can almost feel the quintessence within you becoming excited near to outright catching fire, heightening every sense as your bent soul whines from the cold touch of the void. A man clad in dyed gambeson rushes towards me and is felled in the blink of an eye under the gleaming steel of my blade, which almost audibly cries out in pleasure with every kill. There was a time when this cruel implement – forged in the style of the blacksmith’s arch-enemies in the Far North – commanded the authority of an empire. Though it has lost some of its ancient radiance throughout the centuries, I can still so keenly feel its cold legacy every time it is unsheathed.

I hold the line alongside Reeve and Shiba, fighting for every accursed inch in our long march to victory. After so many years of camaraderie, Shiba and I had become as one in our home of the open battle field, our curved blades and foreign fighting styles cutting down swaths of desperate conscripts wholly ill-equipped to match us. Reeve’s keen eye and indefatigable trigger finger rendered her a master of her signature side railgun, its clunky wiring and battery operation clearly doing little to prevent her from covering our heads from crossbow fire. Finally – the signal, a violent explosion preceding the climactic fall of the drawbridge. Virgil had played the part of sapper well. With a triumphant cry, my black-jacketed comrades and I charged into the castle courtyard, cutting down any who dared impede us. Save one.

Instantly we locked eyes, a mutual acknowledgment between warriors. My old defaced Mandate coat was a perfect opposite for his knightly mail and bastard sword, clearly relics from an age which had long since passed. He was ancient, but his refined stance could easily belong to a spry fighter decades his junior. We recognized each other almost instantly. No canny quips came. Words could not encapsulate the white-hot hatred between the two of us. Yet it was almost comically simple – I had come to destroy, and he had come to defend. Such, I know, was our lot in life. The ornate ring on his left hand can’t help but catch my gaze. The symbol of everything I had strove against for so long. It was time for his order to die with him.

In the time between the seconds, I remember. I remember the chill of the ancient rusted chains whose burden I would bear from the moment of my birth to the hour of my rebirth. I remember the gentle glow of the moon, my hope that in time a hero of eld would come to free us all from this nightmare. So many stories I'd hear of the great Outlanders, the heroes from a distant land who stood toe to toe with the most powerful entity in Emanation and saved all of Aquila. Could they save us as well? That was the question that burned in me until I found the answer for myself. I learned that the only one that can save you is yourself. And so from my first moment as a free man, I resolved to crush every single one of those rats until the order was but a memory. The Black Wolf was born, and he yearned for naught else but the hunt.

That was until he became the hunted. We learned that the Templars were hardly even a shadow of their former selves, unable to influence the world in any meaningful way. The true threats were the ones who thought the order had become too soft and fat with age, that heretics like us had to be reminded that we weren't welcome in Aquila. As if we needed a reminder. My holy war with the Sin-eaters brought me to nearly every nation on the star, including the tranquil mountains of Omishi. The island's beauty did not betray the unspeakable bloodshed that stained its black soil.

The crystal hummed peacefully, its light just eminent enough to allow me to see the jagged grooves of the cave's drawn-upon walls, housing dozens of murals depicting great eras of both peace and war. A fire would have done better to stave away my chills, but we knew that a smoke plume would reveal us to our ever perceptive pursuers and spell our quick and undignified deaths. The last glowbee in the jar had finally run out of light. I mourned for it quietly.

"Why so glum, captain?" Shiba asked, her intonation dripping with playful mockery between comrades. "One o' the slugs get a nip of your arse back there?"

I scoffed. "I've not the faintest idea as to what you're implying. My spirits are higher than ever." Perhaps an intentionally dull and monotone answer would suitable dissuade her doubts. Alas...

"T'ain't nothin' to be ashamed of," she smirked, her tone passingly comforting. "The wolf's nae known the struggles of his prey, and now finds hisself backed into a corner. Have hope, why don'cha?"

She was right. After a long and successful career hunting the Templars and any of their merchant accomplices by both sea and air, now I was hiding in a damp cave in a country whose language I didn't understand, thousands upon thousands of leaps away from the warmth of my hearth in the Aphelion. But that was not the realization which had gripped me so with regret.

"Hope didn't save Sofie," I said simply after a few moments. "It was a year ago today."

"I see," Shiba said, only marginally apologetic - at least on the surface. Deciphering her inner workings is a task I'd always struggled with. "I know that feelin' milad. Like your brain's caught afire an' the ashes are makin' your stomach crawl. We know it better'n most." She tilted her head to a cluster of crystals deeper in the cave, another handful of peasants with red bandanas gathered around it for light.

"Be that as it may, Mme. Misago," I began, reassuming a hint of sarcasm to ease the uncomfortable silence. "My point stands. Even if I trusted hope, I'd say we're fresh out of it based on our current... predicament." I flinched slightly, batting away a colorful spider that had landed on my leg.

Shiba shook her head. "Nay, lad. Look closer." I did so, regarding one of the closer peasants. His expression was tired, but I still detected a hint of fire in his eyes. "Every one o' these poor sods've endured the black fires of hell and worse. Not owned nae but the rags on their backs their whole sorry lives. Most o' their countrymen've been hollowed out. Dead eyes. The light beaten out o' them, hatin' their masters but knowin' that defiance would get them and their kin killed. But 'ere these lads and lasses are. Some'd call 'em crazy, aye. Yet here they are, still laughin' and starin' the one-eyed daemon in his evil eyes like it's nothin'. Here *I* am. That's hope, lad." Her eyebrows crinkled subtly. She may have meant to describe the plight of those peasants, but she was speaking of her own. "Here you are, Finn," she added, returning her gaze to mine own.

I considered her words for a moment then shrugged. "Some of us get a lot, some of us get a little," I began. "They don't want to be the little ones anymore. Not much else to it. And when it's them in charge of the fields, how long until they just replace their old masters?"

She crossed her arms pensively. "If that's how ya see it, then why're'ya'ere, *Messr. Wolf?*"

My mind went back to the chains. The indignation. The hatred. "I have enemies here and helping you hurts them. That's as good a reason as any. Better than hope, I wager."

"Ya can't be a bloody pirate all yer life, lad. Sooner rather'n later, you're goin'a have'ta realize there are better causes to fight fer than yerself."

We exchanged knowing smirks and left the discussion there, both of us remembering that the other hated talking in circles.

The old man stayed firmly planted upon the ground, determined to keep form as long as possible so I'd be forced to make the first move. I obliged, sprinting at him with the Invidere guarding my chest until I came within striking distance, attempting to end the fight quickly by disarming him. For such a grizzled warrior, he was strong. Determined. He held fast against my every attack, offering no counter and keeping his eyes perfectly focused upon me the whole time. He was waiting for an opening. I refused to give him one. I maintained my furious onslaught, slowly breaking down his stamina until his frail frame would finally fail.

Still he struggled. Fine then, I thought. I gradually slew down my blows, drawing deliberately more exasperated breaths each moment to appear as if my own stamina had worn down. Finally he made his move, bashing my face with the pommel of his hilt. Though it hurt like all hells, by some miracle I'd flinched just quick enough to avoid breaking my nose. I reeled back, clutching my face in agony. He drew closer. Closer. Sword raised. Panting. Victory was so close, he thought.

I came to from my feint and sliced the old man square across his chest, cutting deep through his mail and rending his flesh. Staring into my arch-enemy's dazed expression, I finally realized. His were the eyes of a hungry old wolf no longer sated by the bitter blood of his prey. It ran like cheap wine down his sore throat. He still yearned for something more after all these years. And judging by his faint smirk as he dropped unceremonially on the grass, the sound of the impact drowned out with distant explosions, he had found it. I followed his gaze to the black, white, and gold flag flying above the ramparts. Today that flag would be seared to ashes, this I knew. It was the uncertainty of what would come after that unsettled me to my rotten core. Shiba called out from somewhere, whether it was from the past, present, or distant future, I knew not.

"By the way," she started again, more pep to her voice. She fixed her gaze upon the glimmering katana I'd set down beside me. "Ye've been swingin' that infernal thing all wrong, lad. T'ain't a common cutlass, ya know! Takes right discipline and technique 'n all that. I could teach ya, ya know. Ye'll just repay me later."

I glanced at Sutther, deep under a flannel blanket, to ascertain that he was sound asleep and then returned my gaze to Shiba. "I'd be honored."