Burnie had spoken, yes, clearly, firmly. His vision was blurred, though. Weakness was overtaking him on so many levels, mentally, physically. His vision was the least of it. Calomel approached and it was as if he had seen him for the first time. His reaction was peculiar. "It speaks ill of one of us that I half think you an apparition, Cinnabar. Myself most likely." The focus he had brought to bear only moments before was scattered now. He was on the verge of collapse.
Somewhere, elsewhere, everything was nearing a head. An ending was nigh. He could feel it and do nothing. The roll of the die was coming and it was not his hand making the throw. He'd set up the board, only to be taken away before the final move. Here it came, miles and miles away.
In all of Myrken, there was no one less likely to resign himself to his fate than Glenn Burnie, yet here he was. Calomel was an indicator, an adult presence, despite the fact he was younger than any of them in so many important ways. "Too many damned plates, Cinn. Too many. I think I've dropped a few." The stumble was sudden. The fall was abrupt. Something was starting to happen elsewhere and Burnie was ever so connected to elsewhere. There were stimuli here and fell things elsewhere. His body, the starved, hopeless thing, was all too human. He prided himself so on it and on some, maddened, desperate level, he prided himself still, even as it gave way beneath him.
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Burnie fell. Giuseppe did not.
This was why he was here. A moment of redemption. How few people owned this chance, to define the end of their own story? He had compromised. He had betrayed. He had done dark deeds, but no one ever remembers that, not really, not in the face of sacrifice and heroism. He had become a monster, a monster's monster, yet he could die a man.
All he had to do was kill a withered, long-eared creature, a being who had more substance to her hiding behind the veil of antiquity than she did now as her true self. All weight had left her bones, revealing nothing but a hollow exterior of meaningless beauty. He knew a thing or two like that. All he had to do was kill her. No, not even that. All he had to do was allow it.
It played out in his body language, trembling hesitation. Oh, Giuseppe had gone too far, far too far. One can sell everything that matters, one's service, one's loyalty, one's arm and action. He'd gone further than that. He sold his flesh, his spirit, his very soul. He sold these things for so many reasons, to try to make an impact, to try to make it matter, and then, when that wasn't enough, for survival. It was an endless back and forth, an endless given and take. He would overcommit in one direction in order to ensure a legacy and then bounce back the other way when his actions looked to lead towards his demise.
One more day.
That's all he ever asked for in the end. It's all he ever needed: just one more day in order to right the wrongs, to fix the imbalances in his life.
Now, he finally had the chance to do it, to put everything right before it was too late, not everything, no, but enough. All he had to do was act. All he had to do was end the Storyteller, end himself, end his story, and this horrible chapter for Myrken Wood; all he had to do was nothing.
But then, imagine what he could do if he just had one more day to set things right? Imagine what he could create out of the chaos that this would cause. Imagine what one more page of his story might buy them all. All he needed was one more chance.
"No," his voice was soft, accented heavily but quiet. "No, I think what we need here is a story, something with a rainbow to carry all of us out of here. What I think we need is peace. She's a creature of her nature. You are. we are. She deserves another chance too."
And he reached. His hand reached forward to grasp Gloria's, to stop her, to change the path of this tale, to change the path of his life once more, damn the consequences.
Giuseppe was a creature of stories, a monster of choices. He traded bits of himself again and again for what he wanted and then, again and again, for but another chance. Eventually, there was no semblance of who he had been left. Eventually, there was nothing left to him but smoke and mirrors. Darkness and ideas. Ideas could change the world, but they needed a focus, and his focus was gone. Stories could move the heart but not if they had the wrong ended, not if they traveled the wrong path.
Giuseppe could have done nothing. He could have made that choice. In the end, though, there was a right choice and a wrong choice. Giuseppe was a being made of wrong choices and near-endless chances. On this day, there was only one way the narrative could flow. If he could go back to the beginning there might be enough substance to him to stop this tide. As it was, he was a wisp in the wind. As it was, he was swept away. "That's quite enough, Gruma." He reached for Gloria Wynsee's hand and found that he could grasp nothing at all. His hand went through hers, it, like himself, more shadow than man. He tried to speak out, but his voice was gone. He tried to move forward, but his legs were no more. He tried to draw a dagger, to kill the girl he just said they had to preserve, but he had no arms left. He tried to scream, but no head remained. No Giuseppe.
He was gone, an extraneous plot thread in a story that he had bogged down with his litany of poor choices.
There were no more chances.