The Keeper

[igiko]

Hey, you. How much longer are you going to do this?

. . .

Ignoring me now? Hah! That's just what a coward does.


"̷̫̦̩̗͛̈́̒͜Ŝ̴̜̦̟̐͆́̕͜͠ĭ̷̡̻̫̭̠̯̔̄̃̅͛̎ẻ̸̢̺͎̤̹͈̥̳̞̥̘̩̃̍̈͛͋͌͝͝͝g̵̨̢̤̤̬͖̥̠̝̼͕͊͛̍́̓̆́̒͘h̷̙͔͇̰̗̯͛ͅa̶̛̦͑̊̌͊̍̈́̔̿ṛ̴̬͙̭̀̆̾̑͋͠͝t̶͍̫̮̘͕͍̣̔̿̓͆͆̉̆͠͝͠?̷̣̄̔̌͗̏̈́́̚͜͠"̵̗̦͈̄̄̅̌̈́̍̈͛̐͌͝


"Keeper?"

He lifts his head at the echoing of his title in his mind. Souls are delicate subjects whose handling requires the utmost concentration to ensure that nothing goes awry. However, the familiar gravitas with which the voice speaks pulls his attention away from the souls at hand, and he takes leave of the crypt to answer the summons.

Lucretia gives him that searching look she always wears at the beginning of their meetings. Even when they first met, she had a puzzled look about her in spite of the mask he's donned to conceal his face. That was a few weeks ago. Nowadays she meets his hidden gaze with an expectant glean in her eyes—as if she can see plainly through the wall between them—that sets his heart pounding.

"There you are," she says, striding over to him. She stops ever so close, blinking when he staggers back a small step. "Is something the matter?"

"No." Straightening, he pushes his query through the storm of grasping sorrow in his quivering heart. "How can I help you?"

The voice in his mind is lighter than the voice with which he speaks. Perhaps the weight of it is what keeps her from taking that additional step to close the strange distance between them. But as they discuss the lost souls and a way to shepherd them back to their respective bodies, all while he feigns ignorance, he finds himself saying, "We'll save everyone. You won't be alone again."

Lucretia pauses—as does he, crushed by the wave of solicitude that comes over him in its journey to reach her.


̵̼̜̦̂͂̇̊̒̓͗͝͝͠"̸̼͕̱̙̻̣̟̮̱͐̂ͅͅJ̴̹͎̞̙̟̤̖̤̣͊̀́̀͌͝ͅu̸̙̭̪̱͓̠̳̩̪͌̎͝͝s̴̖͇͖͓̙̮̯̞̺̗̤̅̒̓͌͋͝ͅt̷̠̥̯͓̠̓̀͠ ̴̧̨̊͛́͝h̵̩̬̩̬̹͇̰͕̗̽̆͆̃ȍ̵͇͈̖̥̻̝͌̉̽̊͛͋̅͠͝ẉ̴̛͍̰̦͇̂͛̋̌̉͗ ̷̢̧̧̭̟̼͕͍̐̿͆̉̀̓̂͜͝l̶̢̢̜̟̘̗͕̐ͅo̶̳̞͖̮̦̯̺̳͍̺̖̅n̵̮̗̼͛̊̏̓̇̅̕͝e̵̡̳̩̙̱͖͎̘͓̖̥͓̓̍l̴̡̨̬̤͝ÿ̵̩̦̝̭̦͖̲͕̺́̽̽̔̋̄̔͊̓͊̒͜͜ ̶̢̧̘̭̫̝̘̦̘̈́̆͂͑̄̄̋͝w̶̨͙͙͚̣̎̀́͋̊̕e̷̡̺̳̖͛̆͋̆̋͊͘r̴̢̜̝͖̠͎̳̬͌̓͊̋̈́̚͜͝é̵͚̭̤̱̀͑̊̉̌̿́͝ ̵̧̘̥͖̜͍͑͊͠y̵͚͎̐͌̽̒̽͘ǒ̵̭̫̲̙͒̂̿͒̎̄ȕ̴̼̟͕͉̤̔͊?̵̦̠̂́̃͐̈́͊̈̓"̶͕̍̈́͒̎͒̌̓̑́̆͠


I . . .

His head bobs in and out of the water in his heart when Lucretia tentatively reaches for him. His hand twitches in hers, but he allows it to be held—only moving to intervene when she closes in to caress his jaw where the mask doesn't quite reach. His heart clenches at the small smile that seeps into her youthful visage, and he can hardly utter another word before she takes her leave of him.

For a fleeting moment, he's alone.

If you hurt her, I'll cut your soul in half.

. . .

The churning anger contrasts against the pit in his chest. He doesn't doubt the man whose body he inhabits. Even if it would mean cutting his own soul in the process, the man who goes by the name of Sieghart will carry out his promised threat as soon as he comes by the means.

However, he is the Keeper. His part in all of this is to manage the crypt and squirrel away souls in order to prevent them from reuniting with their bodies—only then will his masters be able to rise from the void of intangibility. And perhaps then . . .

They don't care about you. They only care about themselves, so why are you looking for acceptance from them?

. . .

I have no sympathy for thieves. I don't know your story, and I don't care. This body is mine, just as those bodies out there belong to the souls you've caged. We don't exist for you to take over and live in as you please.

I . . .

I'll never accept you.

He looks down at the hand Lucretia took mere minutes ago. In his brief life, nobody had ever held him with the warmth she so easily gave. It wasn't warmth intended for him, but the soul meant to receive it is shrouded in his own; that man's gratitude and concern, combined with his own hunger and guilt, leave him in a stupor, even as his body shuffles back to the crypt of its own accord.

At the crypt, his mind wanders.

Is that love?

What?

For as long as he can remember, he's always been alone. Even now, while he's one of eight prototypes who've installed their formless souls into the bodies of others, the majority shun him for his lowly status at the time of their original deaths. As the Keeper, he's consigned to the crypt, where he can deceive the off-worlders out of his betters' lines of sight—which is precisely the reason why they've yet to cotton on to the fact that he's inhabiting a living body, as opposed to a corpse like initially thought, and hearing a voice he shouldn't be hearing.

(And the fact that, looking at the souls in his custody, he's not the only one. But he's the only one who knows which of them are while they hide from each other.)

At the end of the day, they're all thieves. However . . .


̸̦͓̦̓̉̎̈̓͒͝"̷̛̟͔̋T̴͙̺̪̼̤̹̖̹̙͈̖̆̆̈́̽̒͆̋̉̾̄́͠ḩ̶̜̝̔͆̏̎͌̾̂͐͝͝ͅä̸̼́̀͆͑͐̓ţ̷̧͕͎͓̪̼̝̻̎̃̍̏͑̍̿̓̑̀͑ ̴̡̱͔̤͖͚̞͌̂͌d̵̢̧͇̟̫̱͌͗̀̀̔̿̒͆͛o̸̱͚̾̆̎̅̒̔͗́̾e̴̢̘͓̞̗͎͔̰͚͈͋̋̀͋̏̕s̷͉̗̪̼̒ǹ̷̨̧̡͚͚̺'̸͓͓̜͔͓͉͆̈̉͆̔̔ͅt̶̨͕͖͎̯͎̘͙̦͚̦̊ ̴̦͔̥͖͉͓̗͓̬͖̜̋̊͊͌̅͜ḩ̴͕̣͓̰͖̪̖̫̙͇̿͋̄̊̈́͋̌͆͂̈́͠a̶̧̲̥̺̻͋́̇́̌̔͂̓́͝v̶̛̺̳̮̓̾̋͆̒̈́̿͂͆̋ȩ̶̳̖̪͚̄̂͆̔̔̿́͘͝ ̸̲͋̇͗̽̏́t̶͎͔̘͉̣̼͐̓͊̈́͂̏̐̇̈ô̸̢͔̳͚̲͉̝̞̘̰͚̽̇̋̀͊ ̷̛̪͙̤̰̞͓͈͎̩̅̒͂̐̾͌̿͆ḋ̸̨̛͕̥̥̟̱̋̔̀̒͌̕͜͠ȩ̶̢̹͎̜̯͗̒͛f̷̖͂̇̉͋̑̓̒̒̍̀͆͘ì̶̢̪͇̣̬̼̲͈͚̗͈̀ņ̸̲̩̞̳͔̻̬̤͈̉̃ė̷̡̟͇͙̜͕͓͖̥͖̯̊̈́͗̕͠ ̸͉̠͎̭̲̀y̸̙͔̹̭̺̤̬̐̎͌̒̈́̅͛̃́̽̓͝o̸̪̤̭͍̦̬̠͇̻̝̻̽͗͐͛̆͜ú̴̢͎̮̣̥̀̈́̊͐͑̃̋̄͝ͅ.̴̼̳̩̯͙͚͖̰͇̑͐̈́̍̍͑̈́̆̕̕͝͝"̶͎͈̩̦͔̓̃̂̇͊̈̀͌̿̃́


I . . .

. . .

The feelings and memories he's thieved from Sieghart—when he sees her, he wishes to cling to them and believe that he can be something more.