- The Freed S*aves Became Obsessed

Gehrman once again found Lawrence at Miss Moran's bookstore. "Is this your second home?" Gehrman inquired. "Is the work at the research institute really that easy?" Lawrence was holding a book with a bright red cover, featuring a capital "L" printed inside a pair of black brackets. Still looking unsatisfied, he continued to search intently, ignoring the remarks from the newcomer. Gehrman tried a different approach. "Gildersleeve's help is proving that effective?" Lawrence finally lowered his gaze from the upper shelves, turning his attention to Gehrman, who now became the new focus instead of the stacks of books. Lawrence shrugged, as if the various affairs of his company had no effect on him. "Good afternoon, I'm equally surprised you have a spare afternoon and congratulate you for it." Gehrman seemed to make a considerable effort to suppress the sarcastic aspect of his nature, but it fought its way out through the corners of his mouth. "If you remember, I reserved a table at a restaurant—unless you want bread as dinner—you'd better head out early!" Lawrence coughed, masking his embarrassment. His friend's comment was spot on; that detail had completely slipped from his mind. Thankfully, part of his rational side, exhausted from revisiting his student days, found relief in the situation. With temptation from his studies, Lawrence gave a vague answer: "I don't mind … Plus, I'd like to exchange some reading thoughts with you." Gehrman cared little about the implications of "minding." He was determined to enjoy a normal life, and he knew precisely how to achieve his goal the quickest. "I won't discuss these things where it's crowded. When we're back, I'll listen intently. Don't keep me waiting too long." A perfect intermission. From the fifth step as Gehrman walked out, Lawrence took out his pocket watch, deciding to give himself a bit more time. The bookstore was tucked away in a poorly lit alley near a bend of an unimpressive creek—not the best spot for business. Finding the place was perhaps the result of a leisurely exploration, given its outward appearance suggested little value. However, considering what it sold or the scholarly research conducted there, staying for an extended period held different meaning, especially from the perspective of law enforcement. Indoors, Lawrence didn't have to worry excessively as long as he didn't care about those awaiting outside, maintaining careful speech and sharp perception. Just before his time ran out, another bright red, sealed tome caught his eye. Hugging it to his chest, he tossed a silver coin onto the small counter at the entrance, leaped off the stepladder, and quickly merged into the shadows of the bricks alongside his companion. That evening, they had two meals: one of renowned and uniquely flavored southern cuisine, and the other, a collection of allegories in the style of the Rosicrucian Order. "Heavens, I can't tell which is worse—the snails or these illustrations." Gehrman clutched his forehead, as if shielding his eyebrows from devouring flames. That he compared this book to food he earlier deemed inedible showed how much more frightening it was than parasites. Lawrence, being somewhat calmer, hid a tempest of secrets in his mind that stirred his usually quiescent desires. Luckily, they had just awakened and weren't enough to disturb their rationality, though the impact couldn't be ignored. "Are you certain the translation of the original text is accurate?" Gehrman weakly defended the existing result, although he was fully aware that those few lines of text couldn't sway the decoded shocking revelation, in terms of both quantity and content. "I mean, if it can be summed up as allegories, or a collection of poems? You know, when an author no longer needs to tell a complete story, most follow a wild, uninhibited style. Besides, Latin is a long-dead language; maybe the reference materials were obsolete as well." "Unfortunately, that's all we have." Lawrence firmly closed the book, leaving no doubt that if there wasn't anything erroneous in the ink, he would have caught it in that decisive snap of the pages, "No garden scenery metaphors, no straightforward insights on original sin, certainly no—" "Let's talk about what we do have." Gehrman, as usual, interrupted to prevent the escalation of negative emotions. Lawrence sighed like a punctured air bladder, "Only some impressions, and elusive, almost untouchable premonitions of... inspiration? I really hate admitting at a time like this that I am merely a regular being." "At least we now share this epiphany." Gehrman said, placing his palm on Lawrence's right shoulder blade, offering warmth in stark contrast to the heated eyes. Gehrman never verbalized comfort, yet could always provide solace right when it was needed. Even if some could not accept such cryptic goodwill, perhaps deeming it an over-interpretation on their part, Lawrence always welcomed it gladly and expressed his gratitude when desired, in the same unspoken manner. "Why don't we record it together? Besides, I can assure you all translations are accurate, with no ambiguous omissions." "What makes you so certain?" "Uh, an old bronze coin. Earl Jannings was surprised at such a worthy reward, maybe he unofficially acknowledged my expertise, though I'm not too interested in his commission—we're better as colleagues at the institute... Hey, are you upset?" Gehrman's expression looked as if someone had squandered his inheritance. Seeing this, Lawrence hurriedly turned away to jot down notes, yet his shaking shoulders betrayed his true thoughts. ... Due to unfamiliarity and caution, the seekers only expressed their insights in the shadows. Yet, those secrets permanently changed them, allowing them to glimpse light within the shadows and taste lingering flavors. Gehrman grasped the intricacies of transformation; carvings once just a pastime now materialized in impactful dreams. Even while monotonously desk-bound, the documents began aligning with his intentions, reshaping repeatedly in various forms. Lawrence also had revelations of his own; his nights were peaceful but his days chaotic. In the research institute, beneath his knife, even from the earl's mouth, vermilion splattered everywhere. Attempting to understand knights, pine trees, and alchemical transmutations often left him with splitting headaches, utterly exhausted yet oddly without hunger. Such symptoms grew daily until one day, they culminated in his being unable to rise, confining Lawrence to convalescence at home. In the throbbing hills, reminiscent of a rabbit's opened belly, it began to birth—a stream trickling down Lawrence's face, from lips to throat. Lawrence opened his eyes, feeling searing fire between his teeth, burning alike inside and out, igniting a passionate hunger that drove him to frantically lick his lips—those honey-glazed yet flavorless snacks—his own flesh. Gehrman arrived from outside, startled to find Lawrence's lower face covered in blood, like a crimson mask. It alarmed him, and even more, sent a shiver through him: They each held certain principles, yet witnessing such feasting made the ones in Gehrman's possession start to retreat. "I've tasted it." Lawrence's clinical instinct had him lower his head to prevent choking, leveraging his friend's hand as he attempted to get up, fingertips embedding into Gehrman's forearm's healing scar. Gehrman frowned as the shadow of the curtain's embroidery twisted on the carpet, urging action—yet he wasn't sure if Lawrence could endure another molting akin to his own. The guest still savored the seasoning acquired from their first banquet: "I want more. The fragrant dizziness, intoxicating salinity, instant sweetness, oh... the faint bitterness in sickness ..." Something had been awakened; it didn't come from Gehrman, but rushed towards Lawrence. Gehrman watched helplessly as creation and destruction, along with their inherent forces, receded behind the door, leaving subtle cracks allowing for peering glimpses. He was unwilling, yet powerless. Everything was forming, for the first time Gehrman was no longer the host but Lawrence was, and Gehrman couldn't determine if he'd attend as Lawrence previously did, or refuse outright. It completely depended on the waves in the cup. Now he could only wait by the mountain feet, anticipating news from Lawrence. He helped his friend up, settling him onto the bed's pillow support. Neither bled anymore; the liquid turned divine armor, protecting them from thirst until they could be sated. Missing the first opportunity should have made Gehrman eager to progress, but recalling the near-blinding sting of his inspiration urged softness towards the smiling friend embraced by maternal warmth: "What do you want?" Lawrence ceased gnawing on himself, instead giving into the temptation outside. He spoke in a unique tone, extending his palm to Gehrman, something cupped within. "Everything. I've gained an appetite, Gehrman. All my senses. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, that's all we knew before. So many paths, so many imprints, yet they devour and enhance each other..." The secrets of the locksmith and the blacksmith remained unsolved, offering Gehrman a glimmer of hope: "If you need an imprint, I have something here." Yet Lawrence shook his head, looking through his fingers at the flecks of skin of others, the appetite-driven scrutiny heightened: "It's right here; haven't you already received your instructions? I've found a clear path, but what I need far exceeds a single direction. Bend your rules—lead us out from the shelter of ignorance." This time, Gehrman succeeded. He forged a series of golden-red seals for Lawrence. He did not teach but executed, and the wounds on his hands never healed. After the initial revelation, the bookshelf seemed like raw materials; this not only happened to Gehrman and Lawrence but extended beyond them, breaking open previous boundaries. Their intervention peeled the veneer off Miss Moran's establishment, removing isolation. While many dipped shallowly, others delved beyond the facade of the mystical, driven by a desire to learn more deeply and with firm conviction. "Look at them—how marvelous they are." Lawrence stood at the end of a long table, casting a gaze upon his followers much like a mother observing orphans. Though he still worked at the institute, the nature of his work had transformed significantly; aside from the change in location, there was little difference between wielding a scalpel or a wineglass. Under Lawrence's arrangement, every disciple, devotee, and subordinate had their place at the order's banquet. The eccentric brought poetry, savored by all; the eager ones offered themselves, and those nearby nibbled at their lips. Passion was the easiest to exhaust one's energy, and Lawrence only joined in sparingly, fatigue becoming a constant, at times making him appear deeply troubled and suffering. Amid those who indulged freely, Lawrence understood best not all who are born may perish; thus he found joy in consumption, counteracting the original sin accompanying him from birth. In contrast to Lawrence's indulgence, Gehrman unlocked another door to invisible art. Despite old Glover's offer of a position akin to Alden's status, he resigned from the company, opting for an almost unpaid job, with someone else currently managing affairs. For a humble employee, losing a voice often spelled doom, yet Gehrman detested interference. Before any acquaintances joined, he had already become the first drop of nectar in the blood cup, an undeniable testament of loyalty; although driven by strong impulses, he could still listen to Lawrence's enchanting speeches while reading Nuriel's sacred texts and meticulously documenting the sacrificial methods of the Ekwium rites. Many leaders would label such actions as betrayal: Gehrman was committed, knowing sometimes destruction preceded creation when he wished to conquer. Suppose his goal was Lawrence? They had never discussed this topic. Lawrence wasn't entirely worried; he never demanded anything from Gehrman, fearing even hints could act as negative interventions if certain unavoidable things had to be done. He only alluded to a location: "In the moonlit alleyways..." Another cheer: a disciple with a remarkable appetite had feasted. Some, driven by secular zeal, would plunge into unconventional matters, leaving Gehrman no need to abandon the lock puzzles he adored. But Lawrence's accurate judgment of Gehrman was such that when the prediction culminated, Gehrman broke his silence, revealing his long-lost propensity for being smug after an assured victory: "Below ground, there's an inspector... he's been investigating you recently. I thought perhaps you'd enjoy a brand-new challenge." Lawrence recognized that Gehrman had assuaged his worries. Eagerly, he embraced his friend. In that moment of intertwined limbs, the longing of lips and tongue overshadowed the desire at their fingertips, urging him to taste the honey of the fresh hive nestled on the green fir tips. Lawrence could affirm that within was a consensual affection. Gehrman responded to the kiss, reciprocating in kind. … Lawrence had enough passion, yet worldly discomforts left on the flesh hindered sage enlightenment from seducing him. All day, he dwelled on the syllables of incantations, distressed at their inability to coalesce into sweetness. He tossed and turned in agitation, lingering at the doorways, wandering among followers, seeking the faintest hint of illumination. Ultimately, scars provided his answer. Ludwig was once a diligent gentleman of the eradication bureau, preferring solitude with his pipe and stars. But he found himself locked in a dismal pit—no more moonlit nights, only darkness in a cell. Gehrman, who captured him, gradually became a name rather than a man in his dreams and Lawrence's recruitment drew more followers obsessed with their revelry, caring little for the world outside their gatherings. Thus Ludwig, in his cell, depleted his tobacco, counted bricks, cursed, and pleaded until his exasperation with mere breathing reached an intolerable peak. Lawrence finally remembered to unwrap the gift. Much was said at their first meeting, Ludwig yearning for release, and Lawrence merely seeking a new hammer. By the end, the inspector proposed personally resigning his old position, to which the preacher did not immediately consent. After leaving the prison, Lawrence prepared to re-enter the realm of dreams. He noticed Ludwig's notebook in the coat, reminding him of the mother residing deep within, prompting him to try anew. Embarking once more, his first discernment was Gehrman—his companion, who provided timely and deferred insights, appeared more gaunt. This wasn't because of Lawrence's growing appetite—he was certain of that. He distributed his greed evenly among other followers to spare his partner, supporter, and confidant as much as possible. Caressing a prominent cheekbone, soothing whispers almost instinctively rose alongside thirst from his throat. Gehrman was nearing desiccation: knuckles dry, ribs prominent, skin wrinkled, a foot appearing injured, limping, yet his eyes remained lively. What happened? What's wrong? Lawrence embraced the order's hunter tenderly, eager to open himself up entirely, offering healing if needed. No need for concern over governance nor worry for him—after all, that path inevitably persisted… "There’s a site of ruins left by an explosion that hasn’t been cleared, do you remember?" Gehrman suddenly remarked, calm in visage but pulsating vigorously against Lawrence's palm like recently sated vitality. "Mr. Kate is famous for decorating his office out of affection. Things might still be left behind." From Gehrman’s glance, Lawrence discerned: send Ludwig. This suggestion brought less displeasure than curiosity. Gehrman always led explorations and conclusions; Lawrence never contemplated otherwise, and as for the nominated candidate, who knew if his potential was untapped or negligible. So he asked again, "Is there a particular flavor you desire? I can save it for you." The season of affliction loomed, and Lawrence was confident he would achieve a modest victory contributing to their mutual success. Gehrman replied with a mildly mocking question: "Would you cease your rituals if there were a closer bond with lunacy?" The passionate season passed, bringing with it discontent from Lawrence as gaps in his partner stemmed from an array of entities, diverse and inconsistent. He had reasoned many times that in the whirlpool of food, color, and desire, drowning often lacked return; even before Lawrence comprehended the orchid's transformation, Gehrman should similarly accept the painful toll knowledge brings. He was initially indifferent to tolerating these, however, Bancroft and the night watchmen introduced an alternative doctrine: mercy might be found in shadows, forsaking raw severed limbs could also reveal a sheltering roof. The body wasn’t the sole dependency. Within the confines of Kate & Harlow Company, he confirmed that some remains retained intensely vivid hues post-mortem, and Gehrman was certain that if Lawrence needed, the first toasting individual would color themselves to incite shrill screams. And he dreaded gathering those fragmented pieces, fragrant though they might be. Lawrence, however predictable, if not desirable by Gehrman, pulled away, taking with him the luxuriant warmth: "No. I will never be satisfied with the current flavors." He still desired to articulate his eternal pursuit of the senses, akin to his pre-mealtime prayers, yet, lacking Gehrman's support, his deft tongue unwittingly digested itself, leaving him crestfallen at being disregarded. Lawrence slipped off the bed, heading towards the clamor. To chase him before the gap widened, Gehrman had to see beyond the world's surface, swiftly unravel the riddle. Ironically, despite abandoning it, desire was reignited, the once pure-white chamber inundated with corridor colors, piercing Gehrman's eyes. During their second conversation, Ludwig didn’t voice a return to the eradication bureau; he seemed thoroughly convinced by Lawrence. The detective abandoned his helmet, trading force for forging power. More thrillingly, having glimpsed the mysteries, he moved faster. From the time Ludwig was subdued by Gehrman to resurfacing, a hundred days passed, and as he wandered the streets exploring, who could tell he had already once admired the Red Cup's artwork? Ludwig had an aversion to hammers, reminiscent of a certain incident. Yet, when necessary, he wielded tools like an ancient longsword. He became a new hunter—or perhaps this had been his true role all along. He reclaimed funds, brought in patrons, and even gathered some restless individuals, working tirelessly from sunrise to the Order, much like Gehrman once did. Meanwhile, Lawrence drifted for extended periods within a luminous silver atmosphere, sometimes hovering in the peaks, sometimes circling the ridges. As he maneuvered past low-hanging branches, he realized the secret paths matched the sequencing methods recorded in Gehrman's notes. This secret allowed Lawrence to traverse the woods and encounter bones and ivory. The chill brought by the dead gnawed at his flesh, peeling back his skin to invade his blood and muscle, reminding Lawrence once more of Gehrman. Since their conversation about conversion, a possessive dissatisfaction seemed to linger between them. The bigger their sphere of influence grew, the better their work thrived, yet the less they saw one another. The miasma began to descend like rain. Some of the hungry fell ill, and it might even trouble Lawrence, who, though stronger, had to cross borders. What about his emaciated bedmate? His friend with graying hair? In the cobalt blue light, Lawrence hesitated, recalling their last intimacy sparked by changes in surface appearances. Patches grew from his arm to thigh, rippling like tides, clean, soft, and glowing red; Lawrence had itched for some time, and Gehrman had expressed intense curiosity about it. This urgency ultimately manifested physically. They found clarity, realizing they were intertwined, gasping. Desire, like discarded clothing, lay at the foot of the bed and wrapped back around them post-ascension. "Proliferation" was a nickname for one of the imprints, manifesting on Lawrence as a small bulge on his inner thigh, possibly a new organ. In contrast, Gehrman seemed abandoned by fat; the part of his waist kneeling against the bed left dark bruises stark on his pale skin, as if recently mistreated. These were but workings of the intangible arts. Gehrman had not aged; he merely sought illumination in darkness. Perhaps more than worry about him, Lawrence should consider Gehrman's influence. Yet malaria is an leveling force, as was the impact of the ultimate goal they pursued without collusion, evenly spread across them. Apart from another meeting, Lawrence had no other way to grasp the true circumstances. Distracted, he picked fruit, devouring it in a few bites. His desires matured beyond any single fruit tree's progeny, dimming even the light within the juice between his fingers. He held the fruit peel’s message in his mouth, spitting out the journey. Ludwig received two orders: find Gehrman and decipher historical texts. It was unclear if personal bias influenced his decisions. Presenting results to Lawrence, it was evident the latter task was completed faster. Philippe Foreman, an expert in parasitology and antiquities, conducted his best research in his ancestral home. After his disappearance, the dim mansion undeniably became haunted. True to expectations, Ludwig returned with plaster models of creatures, carrying texts of enough quantity and content to earn past him a handsome reward. Just for the manuscripts related to Stanislav, Lawrence was about to follow suit. He could have elevated Ludwig, reshaping the devoted follower's form, had old wounds and unhealed lesions not barred his good will. Ludwig responded positively, reciting like poetry: "Through the wounds' openings, I step further towards sunset, having seen the first stars of the night. The moon I seek lies beyond!" Lawrence cautioned, "Mind your scars; recent times are unkind to their healing. It's why I wanted to see Gehrman sooner." Ludwig shook his head, exuding confidence, departing with his warmth and the obstacles left by the departed, never to return. Although Ludwig broke a vow, he kept his promise. On Lawrence's descent to the lowest layer to count the bodies and reduce their numbers to evade the doctor’s scrutiny, he discovered Gehrman there. Compared to months past, Gehrman was thinner, his eyes covered by the purest white cloth. His former cloak draped over him like curtains in an abandoned house. Was he blind or otherwise impaired? Regardless, he had surfaced. Lawrence acknowledged an internal sigh of relief. His interest in moths had been greater, but his Sanskrit was superior. To swiftly traverse the golden skull's giant maw—where he surmised Gehrman had been—he chose to reach for the hunger-inducing creature with starry limbs. Matthias adored the adult insect. Contemplating Gehrman, who hadn’t been by his side in days, Lawrence found his thirst sometimes overshadowing his longing for the other; can an immortal truly love? Or had the organ of the soul dried irreversibly? The insect loved Matthias. Gehrman lay in the sand, intently listening to the silky whispers from the multi-legged creatures: was it true? Or merely a capricious fancy? He pursued her through the woods, bypassing the nightmare marshes in the end, lying together at the brightening border. "Ludwig escaped," Gehrman said first, precisely indicating a corpse. "This is his compensation." "Yes, I've lost support again," Lawrence realized, striving to ignore the inherently unpleasant weight of his unpalatable tongue as it dropped into his stomach. "Will you do the same?" Come on, realize it, Gehrman mused silently. Say my eyes are muddled, reasoning dimmed; say the fire I ever sought stalled here, unmoving with my travels. The most challenging separation was of spirit and flesh. Passing bookshelves without altering book positions for the first time, he thought of the legacy bestowed upon him. Bringing it to Lawrence was solely if believed to pique his interest, which proved true. He longed to unveil the veils shrouding above them, yet more tightly bound because he tried to persuade Lawrence to halt. He himself ran faster. Lawrence did not. He cupped Gehrman's face, fingers brushing fatigue-worn eyes. He offered kisses without teeth, indulging senses without desiring pleasure, making the process—when bereft of sustenance—lengthy. Yet Lawrence seemed oblivious, fully absorbed in the operation of love. The ever-expanding and diminishing slightly disengaged. Lawrence's whispers, harder to track than spider trails: "Without you, would I have reached this point? You know the direction—lead me there." Gehrman's desire had stagnated from solitary quests, yet he succumbed. Not to temptation but to Lawrence. That night, as they lay together, Gribi wept watching Lawrence hesitantly venture into paths it couldn't follow. Recognizing the hues, it knew it must let him pass. The battered door hinges creaked open dramatically. ... The passage of days and nights grew increasingly imperceptible. The world of wakefulness no longer served as Lawrence's second home; his mother awaited inside as he fed his senses repeatedly back to her. Gehrman no longer attempted to ignite; he became a guardian of the fire, silently staying by the hearth. His companionship wasn't entirely selfless, for Lawrence maintained his hunger for taste and consumption. Their unprecedented harmony only emerged once the spiritual appetite grew so large that the significance of many extra pieces became noticeable. As Gehrman spent time on the locks at the collection's entrance, Lawrence conversed enthusiastically with members of the Shedding Club; to reclaim manuscripts from the coral edge, he had to describe in English for Gehrman the process of revealing esoteric insights, including a spell potentially guiding from the "Hunter's Gate" to the "Giant Serpent's Gate." "Its name alone warns you to remain vigilant," Gehrman remarked after listening. He glanced at Lawrence's neck, clearly indicating awareness of how to enter dungeons, ensnare occupants, and summon guardians to fetch them back. "It's also one of your mistakes," Lawrence responded, lifting the top draft, lines entwining like language itself, poetic, willful, portraying luminous, melancholic faces of twin unity. Clearly, such dual beauty significantly influenced progress, with mead-like wine flowing outward from Lawrence for a long time, making him the Order’s vascular system, preparing to bring base force and divisor to the Stag’s next threshold. Whether it was the Stone of Noon for rituals or Alessandro La Croce's notes for mastering Facchinone, all stemmed from meetings on the Riverbank Street. Initially, it was Gehrman who paved the route to Moran Bookstore for Lawrence. Twin sorrow! Retained since they were flesh and blood! While slicing himself for spiders to sip, Lawrence wished Gehrman could forget the scent of fox lilies and listen to his successful proceedings’ arguments. What distinguishes us from them? This is far from an ideal capital, and pursuing the intangible arts is hardly a wise choice. How easy it would be to leave and abandon it all! If not for supporting each other, trampling on one another during the season of burgeoning ambition to climb higher, they might have perished long ago. Love made Lawrence resilient, yet rendered Gehrman weak. Just the night before last, he had returned from the Dreamscape, eyes bleeding, claiming the wilderness spoke to him, saying "I cannot touch you, nor find you," suggesting the narrow path ahead for the two of them could never be shared. Lawrence laughed heartily at the shadows cast by two candles: Are you here to confess, or to admit defeat? Gehrman shattered a mirror beneath his feet, then left without a word. Lawrence knew it was just another call for an experiment: they were still attempting to coexist, the competition continuing, with Gehrman perhaps correcting his mistakes, or drawing closer to it. The outcome remained unchanged—dreams eternal and ever-returning. No matter the roads they attempted to extend, they would eventually meet again one day, ending their wandering journey. ... When all the colors in the world began to fade, Gehrman knew it was "that time." An ancient voice at the convergence point declared: A door will open briefly, just now, and a parting will occur. He believed Lawrence also heard it; the only reason he hadn’t sought Gehrman might have been his incapacity to move. So Gehrman pushed through the mundane obstacles, spotting Lawrence struggling on the altar, facing the final moment before desiccation. He seemed surrendered but was not unprepared for Gehrman's blade: all followers, the reverent, rivals, or dissenters, were kissed by death in the cup, faces ecstatically joyful, meaning Lawrence had no second chances. He must entertain Gehrman here. Ascension required devotion and sacrifice; they were both adversaries and followers. For one to win, the other had to lose. Nothing suited the situation's culmination better than a duel. Lawrence awoke from his stupor, his leap from the stage light and lively, unchanged from when Gehrman first met him. See him with the cane! Gehrman forged the first—a nerve-searing brand, the second—a golden-bronze stamp, and the third—a commemorative gift for the leader's birth. Yet his youthful flesh stemmed from repeated reassembly, birthed from St. Triphon, and Gehrman's bones were similarly lone and emaciated from prolonged exposure, appearing unusually aged. This was no longer their concern; the lamp would fall, and the cup would devour. The fate of their bodies and souls depended on which characteristic prevailed. Either tilt of the scale promised immense agony, even Lawrence, adept in consumption, hadn't considered ingesting without suffering from digestion. Gehrman prepared summonses; Lawrence, lacking choices, sought a distant, tranquil place to ascend and find peace. Simultaneous victory existed and they understood the prerequisites: maintain a significant distance, sever all ties, ideally eradicating the opponent, avoiding a life-and-death standoff. Such cruel timekeepers, Lawrence remarked, held love yet led them to choose mutual hatred, self-slaughter in the end. Not solely divine ordination, protested Gehrman. Even so, have you ever really obeyed? Neither of them was willing to play the assistant, nor to concede through violence. In the end, only the highest pursuits fermented into ugly urges, taking over for them. Lawrence said nothing further, merely smiled. He was eating less and less lately, lethal to the senses, yet his mood remained unaffected, as if Gehrman's body, now absent sensation, sufficed in gluttony. Gehrman accompanied him similarly, feigning indifference from the shadows, regarding enlightenment as nothing more than a literary term. In truth, abandoning lofty desires, allowing mundane thoughts to fill their being, there was nothing more striking than immortals in formation. Lawrence's accusations and Gehrman's reflections were equally accurate. Before discovering secrets in books, mastering intricate languages, and deciphering enigmatic auras, their paths entwined the moment they exchanged names—upon stepping into the bookstore, everything interconnected. The orchestra's performance neared its end; tearing apart the score now to diverge, regardless of method, would break it asunder. Finally, Lawrence surpassed his mentor, as skin cracked to pale instead of red. Gehrman realized the mirror had shattered. He began to ascend, light pouring from within, radiating outwards. Torn into petals and consumed, he vanished instantaneously, leaving the victor amidst shards and tears—the one who'd reconstruct their body, with smooth skin and more taste buds for the grand feast. At least you handle this well, thought Gehrman. He began to dissolve, bones extracted from sinew, flesh compressed inward, final sensation lifted by moist fingers, a scalding kiss splattering blood. Thus, the mortal body turned to ash. ... A deep crimson stag emerged from the woods, left antler so massive it was imbalanced, right eye widened by its weight, as if in perpetual tears. Lava flowed from a mouth with sharp, unclosable teeth, its fur torn into flaming tatters. Each footprint as sleek inside as outside. In its burning, it carried an arch-like, soft-bodied, sticky crescent moon; seen silver from above, black from below. Prominent above the dreamscape, its shape pierced glass and flesh, now immersed within it, able to move forward, bearing both old and new forms. The great deer's tracks were varied, uncertain, and sporadic, yet wherever that tender childhood traveled beside it, it was called the path of moonlight. We may rebel someday; perhaps one day, we'll soar higher.