After what felt like an eternity, the mass undulated and warped, then finally changed into... Artemis.
"Get up," ordered Morgan. Gone was the casual manner. He was all business now.
’Artemis’ rose and stood staring blankly ahead.
Morgan clicked his fingers again, drawing the creature’s attention. "You have a job to do."
The creature opened its mouth. "I... have a job... to do." Its voice was unsteady, unpracticed, yet sounded unmistakably like Artemis.
"Good," said Morgan. "Get to it then."
’Artemis’ nodded then awkwardly walked to the door and down the stairs.
I’d been right the first ti about when this mory took place, but I’d been wrong about Artemis. The man who’d attacked Cloud Fla Manor and everything afterwards wasn’t really him at all.
I wasn’t sure what to feel about that. Did that make things better, or worse? Even now I’m not sure of the answer.
Morgan ducked his head out the door of the room, seemingly to make sure ’Artemis’ made it down okay, then strode back inside and headed to the desk. Again, I had to sit and watch as soone fiddled with the furniture, though this ti it was much more interesting (or perhaps it was the shock and horror of what I’d just seen that made want to focus on anything else).
After going through every drawer and pulling out the contents of each, Morgan rapped his knuckles along the top of the table, then the side, then the underside. This went on for about a minute until finally he hit gold. Or at least, until he found what he was looking for.
From my vantage point in the wardrobe, I couldn’t see how exactly he got the secret compartnt open, but I did get to see what he found: a crystal. The crystal. I hadn’t seen it in years but I knew instantly that it was the crystal that my father and Morgan had both waved in my face multiple tis.
Morgan sighed with satisfaction and pocketed the crystal then got up and left, leaving alone in the darkness of the wardrobe.
I’m not sure how long I stood in there for, but it felt like a long ti as I tried to process what I’d just seen and what it ant.
But all that was cut short when the Coil started to collapse.
Despite all the chaos, however, I understood, roughly, what had happened.
The ’Artemis’ I’d caught and delved into the mories of on the twenty-third floor of The Unity building, was not really him, but a double created by Morgan.
I hadn’t realised this, and I doubt many other people had either because this double had also thought it was real.
But that was why the Coil was now collapsing. Now that there was a witness to the real Artemis’ death and the fake Artemis’ birth, this double could no longer continue pretending to the world and to itself that it was real.
The collapse was slow at first, just a bit of annoying pressure at the nape of my neck, but it soon grew to a crushing weight that both pressed and stretched at . I recognised the feeling from when the Coil of the Walled City collapsed after we defeated its guardian and, unlike back then, I did not have so quick escape though I knew I had to do sothing or else... Or else, I don’t know. Being inside a Coil as it collapses doesn’t sound like a good idea.
Out of the wardrobe, that was the first thing I had to do, so I pushed open the door and walked straight into Morgan.
"Ti to go," he said, grabbing by the arm before I could react.
The room, the world, it all broke apart, falling into pieces like old paint off of tal, flaking into nothing, and that was the last I saw of the Coil.
I landed hard on the ground and took a mont to recover, then looked up and around. I was out of the Coil, I could feel it, but this very much wasn’t where I’d entered it in the hallway on the twenty-third floor of The Unity’s building.
--
Arthur stepped to the side and, with a quick flick of his hand, caught the blade with his magically enhanced hand. His fingers were bloody and his clothes unkempt.
"C’mon, old man," goaded Bran, twisting the blade then slashed upward.
Forced onto the defensive, Arthur backed up unsteadily.
Things had changed since Bran had gotten the sword. The contest that should have only gone in one direction, was now going in the other. Arthur still had his strength and his frighteningly powerful abilities, but that sword, matched with Bran’s skill, was quickly closing the gap and both sides knew it.
Bran stepped forward and twisted the blade to slice downward instead, further pushing Arthur back, then spun around and used the montum to make a wide, horizontal cut.
Fast. Too fast.
The first five inches of the tip found flesh, slicing and severing skin and muscle straight across Arthur’s stomach.
"Grah!" He fell to a kneel and clutched at the wound, blood spilling out and dying his shirt red before dribbling down to the deck of the boat.
Bran stepped back, sword loose in his hand, shocked he’d hit his mark.
Arthur glared up at him, eyes burning and face pale from pain. And then he laughed.
The sound echoed across the lake, bending in tone so that it sounded more like the deranged cackle of a crow, a warning of future bad luck to all that heard it.
Bran renewed his grip with two hands and changed stance, ready for his next attack. "What’s so funny?"
Arthur grinned, teeth drenched in blood.
"Ignorance," he spat. "Pure ignorance."
He chuckled again then stood.
And as he did, the blood that had spilled down onto the curved deck of the boat began to flow backwards, upwards, and back into his flesh. That red liquid floated in globs, combining and undulating as it returned ho and through the gap in the fabric of his shirt Bran watched in horror as the wound he’d worked so hard to inflict sealed itself anew, skin weaving together into a perfectly smooth surface.
"You may have gotten a shiny new sword from your boyfriend," said Arthur, his teeth no longer a bloody red and throat not choked with blood. "But it won’t help you against . I am eternal."
Bran’s eyes narrowed. "Sure," he said, then sprung forward again.
He was shocked by the man’s sudden regeneration, who wouldn’t be, but he wasn’t stupid. If Arthur was truly impervious to attacks, then why did he spend so much effort defending himself in the first place? Why did he let himself tire at all? Why not just regenerate his strength back too?
No, clearly this show of ability was ant more as a form of intimidation, a psychological attack on Bran to try to break his will because once that was broken, the battle was over.
How did the regeneration work? What were its limits? How far could it go? Bran had no answer to these questions, but he had a good idea of how to find out.
He spun the slashed an ’x’ in front of him, then stepped into the space Arthur left when he dodged, and continued his assault. He was tired, exhausted even, but the change of circumstance (even if it seed detrintal to him) energised him. It gave him sothing to chew on, an experint to run.
Bran shoved sideways and into Arthur with his shoulder knocking the man off balance, then whipped the blade round.
Blood and a severed finger arced through the air.
Arthur swore at him, the veins at his temple pulsing and the tendons of his neck bulging.
"Food for the fishes," said Bran with a smile.
Arthur clawed for him then. It wasn’t an attack, not a real one with the slicing strength of an invisible blade. No, this one was one of pure rage and frustration and pain.
The boats beneath the contestants groaned and shifted on the lake and Bran stepped aside out of harm’s way, then twisted the blade to make a cut at the man’s feet. The attack feel short, rely slicing a deep gash into flesh but it was more than enough to draw blood. Lots of blood.
The man cried out again and Bran moved back again to watch carefully as he regenerated, making sure to keep a ntal tir of the number of seconds it took to completion.
Longer. It was taking slightly longer.
The severed finger and gallons of blood found their way back to Arthur, and this ti the man wasn’t laughing.
Bran didn’t want to jump to any conclusions but he was feeling pretty good about the situation, or as good as he could given the circumstances. He was only human and he was tired.
But he also had a way forward. Misha had given it to him.
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