Chapter 67: Belgrave
“There’s a difference between a Hollow and a Wailborn,” Garran said, one hand dangling from the window, face turned toward the gentle breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees lining the road. “The former lacks Authority and is mostly an empty shell. Just the foul air of the Broken Lands is enough to make a Hollow out of a corpse so long as the heart remains. A Wailborn, though, is different. It’s alive.”
Valens nodded absently at the words, glancing at Selin who sat spellbound by Celme with eyes glinting as she listened to the Berserker’s tales. They were mostly about D-Tier Rifts that housed the creatures of the Broken Lands, which could’ve piqued Valens’s interest had it not been for their recent visit to that particular Cursed Rift.
As expected, coming across a Remnant Terror is not a common experience.
But it seemed even the mention of a few weak creatures had made a story good enough to keep a Nursemaid invested for so long. Valens appreciated the effort, as anything that would keep Selin’s mind away from their sessions helped with the resulting backlash of her memories.
It’s been tough on her. We did what, a dozen sessions in just over a week?
Thankfully, not all of her memories were about that mysterious younger brother who burned their parents. No, they were mostly about the religious nursery she was brought to after her brother went missing. She spent nearly ten years with the nuns and the nursemaids of the church there, a happy little child who got way too excited whenever they gave her sweets, which was contrary to what anyone would expect from the terrible loss of her family.
She buried everything about her brother and her family deep in her mind, and grew to be a reliable young woman recruited by Countess Margaret right after she’d picked her Nursemaid class. The moment she’d heard she would be working for a noble family was the happiest time of her life.
But no matter what I did, I couldn’t pry into the memories about her time in the Countess’s mansion.
“That’s why we use Sacred Artifacts like the Wraithspike in those cases.” Garran opened the palm of his hand and caught a leaf as the carriage lumbered on, turning with an eyebrow arched to Valens. “Hey, are you listening? I’m spilling classified information here. At least act like you’re interested.”
“I am.” Valens came to himself the second he felt the man’s gaze on him. “But you’ve already told me I’ll get a comprehensive course in the capital from a respectable — What was the name? Percival? The intelligence guy you’ve mentioned who works for the Golden Ward.”
“Yeah, but those people only deal with information while we deal with the true dark work.” Garran lifted his chin with the expression of a man who thought paperwork was beneath his skills. “Write the details all you want. Work up a sketch with the lines aligned and perfectly smooth. Paint it for good measure. You know, the shading and all that, but still it wouldn’t reflect the true side of it. Nine Hells, you should know better. You’ve seen it for yourself.”
Valens briefly remembered the moment he decided to place a hand on the Weeping Horror’s sprawling form. He remembered the sticky feeling of it, of the tendrils stretching from all around, of the oily, crooked version of himself reflected upon that giant singular eye, of the dread prickling insidiously through his skin.