Chapter Text
Justice.
Wels...isn't entirely sure what that means, anymore. It hurts, to finally admit that to himself; a definition that had once been the most essential part of his being, clear as the finest-cut crystal, simply gone.
Resentfully he stares at his reflection, water below rippling with concern; the river he'd chosen has seen her share of broken souls. She wishes she could offer some comfort beyond the brutal end so many face in her depths, but her whispers of reassurance are lost in the rush of water and the man doesn't notice.
Severed wings, a shattered halo; his brother, as he'd later realise. The most obvious of what he'd lost in the Fall.
Over and over again, he'd told himself he wouldn't lose Justice. Wouldn't let them take that last fragment of who he'd been. He'd repeat the law code he'd helped write religiously; at least half an hour a day, whispering it aloud while he worked, or prayed, or simply before bed.
If he'd had access to writing supplies when he fell, a communicator, anything, maybe things would be different. But no, Wels had landed in a farming village in the 1400s. So he’d memorised what he could, and prayed for what he'd lost.
And then he’d found a new set of principles, and lost them again, and this time there weren't any memories left to fall back on.
Discovering knighthood had saved him, in that way; a code of honour and justice to adhere to when his own had been left shattered at his feet. He'd rebuilt his life, his beliefs, his very soul around the code he'd been given. It's outdated now, almost archaic in this modern world, but what does it matter?
So is he.
The first time Wels had got his hands on a dictionary, all that time ago, he'd sought out his word at once. It had been one of those great leather bound tomes that would remind him desperately of the Aether if only they weren't all so imperfect; moth bitten and torn, splattered with ink in the most unhelpful places - but his word had been there. Printed a little far to the left and rather stained, but there.
Four, five centuries later, and the definition's barely changed. It hurts, in that furious way you hurt when you know you haven't the right nor reason to be angry; bitter thoughts gilded with self-hatred and guilt. But humans have such short life spans, and such cruel memories, and still they hold onto these things centuries beyond what he could ever be capable of.
The administration of law or equity.
The maintenance of what is just or right by the exercise of authority or power; assignment of deserved reward or punishment.
To be perfectly honest, Wels still can't find a satisfactory distinction between the two definitions. He knows that here, law and equity aren't always as aligned as they should be, but struggles to understand that differs from the maintenance of 'what is just'. He berates himself, even now, for not realising that no purpose as clear cut as Justice was ever going to survive the muddy intricacies of personhood; the chaos of the overworld.
He understands what he's done, though.
Hels is dead.
And, sure, maybe his brother had died centuries ago, lost to the darkest side of humanity; maybe the vengeful wraith haunting Wels' every step simply wasn't them anymore. Maybe Eskeziel’s abandonment had twisted so badly that he wasn't even a person anymore.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Did any of it matter?
There had still been a shadow, a figure he'd been able to call his brother: to grieve for, and be angry at, and project misplaced hope onto. There had been something. And now there isn't, because Wels killed him.
Murdered him, to be precise.
Self defense, attack; he never knows - knew - with Hels. It's not like he can take this to a law-court; the legalities of the overworld are defective enough without the difficulties his story will present. The Aether, a myth to almost all, closed off from the other dimensions for centuries. His own cover story; a human cursed with immortality - something else he'd have to sacrifice to any jury he faced.
A jury, a jury- what could any jury do to him? A life sentence; three? He'd outlive them all!
No, there's not a court in the overworld that could save him now. The only Justice he can answer to down here is his own.
He shifts where he's sat, the stone wall of a countryside bridge. The rock is rough underneath his hands, a grounding texture in this insane world. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself up to standing, until the toe of his shoes are no longer on solid ground. Around him the night air presses in until Wels feels closer to fog than anything human, and he feels like he's in freefall already - it's exhilarating. He can't help the smile crossing his face; it comes to him unbidden as he stands there, a half-step away from freedom.
Footsteps echo across the bridge, and any excitement leaves him in a flash. There was a reason he was out here so early, and it wasn't so a well-meaning stranger could try talk him out of this. For a moment Wels contemplates stepping forward; ending it all before this stranger can intervene - but he doesn't. Something he doesn't understand, something he still won't understand decades later, holds him back, and he breathes out instead.
Wels doesn't turn, though. Simply straightens up, and fixes his gaze on the darkness of the night sky.
"Hello," comes a voice behind him, rather more upbeat than Wels was expecting, "Would you mind telling me the time?"
So stunned is Wels that turning is a reflex more than anything else, as he glances over his shoulder to stare at this man. When he manages to find his voice, he can't stop the shock colouring his words, "The...time?"
"The time," the stranger answers with a nod, seemingly unperturbed.
Later, Wels will realise there was no possible way this man didn't know the time; even ignoring the communicator at his wrist, the town hall's grand clock tower stood barely twenty metres behind them. Later, he will realise that the time wasn't in the slightest why this conversation started.
But he's tired, shocked, and giddy with anticipation, so none of that occurs to him. So, with the politeness of surprise and the caution of talking to the insane, he checks his communicator,
"...4 28 am?"
"Amazing, thank you!"
Wels half expects the man to just...walk away, after that; leave him to his suicide. For better or worse, however, the stranger leans against the stone wall next to him, "Lovely weather today, isn't it?"
He says it with such confidence that Wels actually looks around, checking to make sure the thick fog that surrounds them hasn't vanished in the last ten seconds, before turning back to the man, "...no?"
The stranger laughs, and Wels can't help his own chuckle, astounded by the insanity of the situation. Now that he actually looks at the man who's joined him, he notes his appearance is almost as strange as his actions: his skin is near translucent, the star-speckled black of the End Portal; white hair falling below his waist. The peculiarity is completed by a bulky ventilator that takes up half the man's face, seemingly helping him breathe.
Before Wels can connect his appearance to any particular species, the stranger starts talking again, "I rather like the fog. It's- real, you know? You can see it, you can feel it on your skin; it's beautiful."
"It...is?"
"Yes! So many things are- did you know the moon can come out in the daytime? I didn't! And there are these shells - I thought you could only find those by the sea, but there was one on the way here, and it had an animal inside it! With eyes on rods that wiggled! Isn't that amazing?"
That's when Wels finally connects the dots; the odd appearance, the ventilator. The way the stranger talks about the Overworld with all the excitement Wels himself had greeted it with, all those centuries ago.
"You know, I rather thought we were in treaty negotiations with the End."
The Voidwalker - because that's what he must be - turns, eyes crinkling so deeply the smile beneath his mask must be brighter than the sun, "And that is no longer anything to do with me! It never will be again."
"I guess I'm glad someone was happy to see the back of their dimension," Wels says, without really thinking.
Looking up at him with some interest, the stranger then asks the question Wels has been fleeing from for the last 500 years, "Where are you from?"
There's a heart-stopping moment where Wels panics, only to promptly realise it doesn't matter anymore. Because he's going to be, well, dead. And what the hell, Wels decides, because if he's going to off himself anyway why not tell his secret to at least one person before he goes?
"The Aether. I'm- I used to be an angel."
"Oh," the man says softly, but doesn't press, much to Wels' relief. For a moment the conversation hangs, and Wels wonders if the exchange is over; he wants to jump before the general population start waking up. Unfortunately his new friend doesn't appear to have gotten the memo, and continues, "I don't suppose you know the right direction to the sea, whilst I'm here?"
The stranger's two for two on saying things Wels couldn't predict if the future itself had been his angelic calling, and Wels stares "I- I mean, downstream? I guess?"
Wels blinks, and a thought dawns: the Voidwalker doesn't seem to have any kind of vehicle. And if they're new enough to be excited about snails, they probably don't have any money either - never mind knowledge about the intricacies of public transport.
"Do you- you aren't planning on walking, are you?"
"Why not?"
"Why- That's a ten hour walk. Minimum."
"Oh. That's...not too bad, honestly."
"Not too-" Wels has to shift his feet, stabilizing himself physically against the confusion. "What could possibly be at the sea for it to be worth WALKING TEN HOURS?"
"Axolotls," he responds lightly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"...Axolotls."
"Yep! They're these pink, fleshy blob things that are somehow cute? My brother and I, we used to have competitions about who could draw something that fit those parameters, and we never really could, so I'm going to go see one!"
Even with the absurdity of this man explaining axolotls to him, Wels can't stop his bitter laugh. "My brother's dead. I murdered him. He tried to stab me and then I pushed him and then I murdered him."
The Voidwalker stares at him, finally thrown a little off balance, though not at all for the reason Wels expects, "...My brother's dead too."
"Did you kill him?"
Wels- Wels doesn't know why he said that. Why that was his instinctive reaction; it's insensitive, highly rude, and Wels regrets it before he's halfway through his sentence, "Oh, Devs, I'm sorry- I didn't-"
"I didn't kill him, no. But I probably could have saved him."
Wels swallows, "Don't. Don't torture yourself with what ifs. It's not worth it."
The stranger looks at him, sadness in his eyes for the first time since they'd met, "It doesn't sound like you killed your brother."
"Really!? Does it now?? And how the fuck would you know? Who are you, to decide that - to attempt litigation for the bloody angel of Justice?!", he's panting now, trying to ignore the tears running down his face. He's shouting at a stranger, some random man who couldn't have been in this dimension more than a week, and he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed. "Who are you to permit me anything?!"
"Xisuma," he replies, and Wels's laughing fades to a desperate, broken wheeze as the Voidwalker continues, "Xisuma Void. And I- hmm. Yeah. I give you permission to live."
"Permission...to live?"
"Yep," says Xisuma, like it's that simple. "And- oh, do you want to come with me? To see axolotls?"
"Are you inviting me on this ten hour walk of yours?"
Xisuma grins, "Do you have anything better to do?" he asks, gesturing out at the river. "And!" he says, a new thought occurring to him as he speaks, "There'll be sea at the other end! So if you change your mind, you can kill yourself there instead!"
Wels stares at him.
Then smiles, then giggles, then loses it completely, almost doubling over on the stone wall he's still stood on precariously. It's ridiculous, and stupid, and really, what has he got to lose?
Xisuma takes a step back from the wall to reach a hand up, and even though Wels can only see his eyes, that's more than enough to read the reassurance in his expression; to know he's smiling. With a measured breath, Wels takes the offered hand and jumps down, landing on the stability of cobblestone with a soft thud. He manages a smile back, and for the first time in a very long time it isn't fake, nor polite, nor the manic exhaustion desperation yields.
He recognises that in Xisuma, now. The way you keep smiling even as your world shatters around you, because if you stop for even a second you know you’ll never be able to stand up again. He wonders how long Xisuma had been forcing himself to keep walking, with almost no sense of where. "My name's Wels, by the way."
"Lovely to meet you!"
"You too, Xisuma. You too."