"If you surrender your choices to others, did you ever truly live—or merely exist by their design? Even in destruction, you can dictate your own terms, and in that defiance, carve meaning from the void. Self-destruction is not liberation—it is the forfeiture of agency. But being erased, being removed by forces beyond your control, is different. There is tragedy in elimination, but not failure—only the echoes of what was fought for. The difference is whether one chooses or is chosen. To shape your own end is to remain sovereign, even in the fall." - Martin gravesend
As Duran approached the podium, the church, mostly empty, still held six of us five of whom were desperately clinging to faith as a shield and an escape. But I wondered: is this really what faith means? Is faith truly a shield, or is it simply a crutch in such circumstances?
Duran wore circular, bespectacled lenses that I suspected came from the novelty shop I had passed, as they looked alarmingly old and ill-fitting. His hair was thinning grey and brushed to the right side of his face. Sin'vella protects many things, but apparently not the appearance of her chosen one, as his stomach bulged, happily concealed behind the podium. As he stepped forward to lift the imposing tome of black resting with its flesh cover on the podium, a wave of unease washed over me. I couldn't help but question how he intended to impart the teachings of Sin'vella. The original texts, rich with wisdom and tradition, had been meticulously redacted in the aftermath of the Matriarchy Rebellion, leaving behind fragmented remnants of a once-flourishing doctrine. In the eyes of the Darkspires Court of Six, the religion was now seen as a dangerous relic of the past, condemned for giving rise to the problematic Credit Syndicate, which had disrupted the very fabric of our society. The air was thick with tension as the pages hinted at secrets long buried, and I wondered if he truly understood the weight of the details he was about to unveil. How could he? If their interpretation was considered a threat, leading to the religion being closely monitored, did Sin'vella protect, and were her words benevolent? If man alone determines what the words of the gods mean, are they truly still the words of God once they are changed, edited, and malformed to serve mankind? He reached for the glass of water that had long since lost its freshness, its surface glistening with condensation in the dim light of the room. He lifted the vessel to his lips, tilting it back as he took a hearty swallow, his throat bobbing visibly with exertion. A bead of perspiration trickled down his forehead, despite the mild temperature that enveloped the space. This observation hinted at the effects of his obesity; the slightly humid air seemed to wrap around him, making everything feel just a bit warmer, more stifling than it would for someone else.
As he came up for air, he coughed gently to clear his throat, the sound echoing slightly against the walls. With an intentional shift in his posture for effect, he planted his feet firmly, exuding an air of determination as he prepared to deliver his next words with weighty significance. "Now, let’s turn to page 132 to give…” As Duran looked around, he noticed a new face mine. Naturally, he was putting on airs, and I knew that at some point during this group therapy session, I would be asked a question. If I answered too correctly, I would raise suspicion, and since I still didn’t know her name, I would have to attend more of these sessions. However, if I answered snarkily or cynically, I would lose favour with him, and consequently with our mystery woman. So I kept my mouth shut, paying attention to the lecture's pacing and his words, learning and adapting my responses, making a few errors but not too many. "Sin'vella, be my shield, be my place to hide, be my shelter..." He paused, allowing his tone to rise with inflexion. "Know, that in darkness, you are my light." He continued, "In this tome rests the truth; in this tome rests our faith. And what is faith but protection from decay and guidance to the true path?" Next, he posed a question to capture their attention, spark curiosity, and maintain their mental shields. This was not just a clever ruse; it was a nuanced form of manipulation that served as a protective barrier. But was this truly the moral course to take? If such a façade needed to be upheld, didn't it ultimately render the whole endeavour meaningless, especially considering that the majority choose to remain ignorant and resistant to learning? The very act of maintaining this shield seemed increasingly futile in a world filled with stubbornness and refusal to embrace care. Still, I wondered if he knew, and if he did, was he pursuing this as a lifelong quest to halt the decay that had overtaken our world? He glanced up from the well-worn pages of his book, allowing a warm smile to spread across his face as he gauged the attentive expressions of his audience. His tall, broad frame seemed to swell with pride and determination, an embodiment of his conviction as he spoke.
"The Giver reveals to us that even in those desperate moments when a person feels the gnawing ache of hunger and the shadows of despair loom large, there shines an enduring light within each of us. It is our solemn duty to nurture that inner glow, to protect it fiercely, and share it generously with others, for in doing so, we fortify our own strength. This principle is the very heart of what we call Laterism.
Circumstances may shift unexpectedly, the landscape of our lives may be engulfed in darkness, yet the potential for greatness still flickers within our grasp. There is always another step we can take, be it for our own sake or for the benefit of those around us!
So, I urge you to hold this thought close. If you ever find yourself venturing beyond these sturdy walls, into the foreboding territories where ruthless raiders pillage and the untamed wilds loom thick with brambles, or where crumbling ruins whisper tales of lost civilisations, remember to carry a small shard of kindness with you. Take a spark of that light, and let it guide your way." I expected a flourish, I was not surprised when he continued, "Latitude is the term we used to describe both the descent and the rise. Laterism, if you will, means that no matter how far the light may seem or how long the journey is, the ascent itself— even if it never truly ends— is worth the price, as long as we keep love in our hearts. The giver ensures we have food in our bellies and light in our souls." He looked up at the stained glass window in the church and encouraged them to have faith, even though he wasn't sure if it was part of some grand plan. I understood his pride in providing these people with a bit of comfort amidst their inescapable lives under that black plate. I understood the pride and the need, so I dared not to challenge his belief out loud, not simply because I could not zero in on my target, but because I simply would not. I brush the thought aside, considering it unclean, and remind myself that I wasn't paid to corrupt a priest in Lowtown. I crack my neck, feeling stiff from sitting for too long, as the priest looks my way through the circular lenses of his glasses. I can sense that a reckoning is coming. Will I be strong enough to resist temptation? I let the deviant chuckle in my mind echo like the chorus of a song and steady myself, noting the rise and fall contained within the fragments of his faith—this Laterism. He shifted his weight ever so slightly, his keen eyes glinting with a calculating curiosity as he scrutinised my features, much like a seasoned con artist evaluating a potential mark. A slow, almost predatory smile crept across his lips, and in that moment, an instinctive chill ran down my spine—I could sense that he had struck gold in his assessment of me and was now gearing up to launch his pitch. His demeanour was relaxed, but there was an underlying tension that crackled with anticipation, hinting at the question he was poised to ask, one that could reveal more about me than I'd ever intended. "Laterism is about the journey, a climb, even a person like you, who has faced addiction and experienced a fall. You are here today to rise, aren’t you, my son? The losses you’ve endured don’t have to define your life. Even if you feel the darkness closing in, remember that you can rise; the Sin'vella's light is still within you. My question is not religious in nature: Who did you lose? What weight do you carry?" I didn’t take a moment to pause; instead, I let a look of feigned shock wash over my face as I weighed my next words carefully. Whatever I chose to say had to stray from the truth, yet still have an air of believability that would keep the conversation flowing. At this juncture, I realised that maintaining a facade was my best course of action. If I chose to ridicule him, I would risk alienating myself from my target’s social circle—an invaluable link for my line of work. Conversely, abruptly shutting down the discussion would cast me in a suspicious light, leaving too many unanswered questions.
What I needed was a creative, plausible alternative that would keep me shrouded in mystery. I was acutely aware that revealing any real details about my life could invite an accelerated intimacy that I wasn’t prepared for, potentially exposing my true identity as a hitman and unlicensed contractor. The stakes were too high to let anyone see behind the curtain of my carefully constructed persona. But I had to admit, he wasn't far off the mark—perceptive little bastard. I was on the back foot; power had indeed changed hands, and I knew I had a story to tell. So, I let the words flow, but I could only change one detail: how it really happened. I didn’t reveal her name. Instead, the story that left my lips was, “It was my brother.” I paused, allowing the distaste to seep into my veins and soul. "He died in the Blackfire. My mother has refused to speak to me since it was my fault he enlisted. Then she got sick, and when I found his body, it was burned almost beyond recognition. Shortly after that, I found out I was epileptic and started using Neurotellin. The Additon....it taints everything and consumes everything. It became the only way to manage not just the unbearable seizures, but also my guilt." It was close. At least Scarlet had been the love of my life in a way, not related to war but to crime. I was an officer at the time. Even though my mother's illness had nothing to do with it, I can't help but think of that stupid Vertucci kid with the gun and no common sense when I tried to save his life or change his life. He wasn't a bad kid, I reasoned that maybe if we just treated them alittle kinder, he might change and the good would win out, but he turned the tables on us and my partner, using us as a way to get out of jail free. It was called police brutality, and Scarlet took her own life afterwards. Once I tampered with her evidence, it became clear that the amount of force used was unnecessary since she no longer had proof. I shook off that thought as Duran looked at me, the silver light rays reflecting off his circular lenses hiding his eyes but not his concern, sensing the pain I was trying to conceal. Despite my efforts to manage my emotions with neurotellin and remain steady, it was evident that this burden weighed heavily on me—on my soul, if I still had one. Sooner or later, we all pay for the choices we make. We were planning to let him walk out anyway.....he didn't need to....counter with charges of his own. That thought snakes back into my mind as I lower my head. Duran, for his part, allowed me to wallow in silence for a moment before speaking. The woman I was speaking to rested her hand on my shoulder and softly said, "My soon-to-be husband had a similar situation with his sister." As I sat with my hands clapsed around my head ensnared in the oppressive fog of my nightmarish stupor, a flicker of opportunity presented itself, though breaking free felt almost impossible. With a voice barely above a whisper, I managed to murmur, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” As I slowly lifted my gaze, I caught a glimpse of her face—sharp and striking, yet softened by a warmth that somehow penetrated my aching heart. The remnants of pain swirled in my eyes, a tumultuous blend of unfulfilled hunger and the burden of lingering guilt that pressed down on me like a heavy iron bar.
She responded, her voice clear and unwavering, “Larissa.” I realised, with a reluctant acceptance, that I would need to attend more of these sessions—each gathering a necessary stepping stone to cultivate the fragile rapport that would be crucial for what lay ahead in my approach to the target.