Ba-dum. One solitary heartbeat. The story goes that this was how much time you have to act if you want to survive on the rough streets of Manea: the span of one heartbeat with which to decide to fight or run; to trust or lie; to resist or surrender. Patience was a luxury born of comfort and power, existing solely in the realm of the predator. For the powerless – for the prey - action was life. One could temper and hone the blade of action with instinct and exercise, but in the end it all came down to that briefest of moments where movement was life and hesitation spelled death. The alleyways and gutters and morgues of Manea were littered with those who were just a little too slow; a little too trusting; a little too frightened to act. Their heartbeat wasted to indecision was their last. Ba-dum.
Barron had lived his life by this rule of action, but here now, staring at these profane abominations, Barron found his heartbeat falter and stall, as he stood motionless in the face of the unfathomable. Ba-dum. They had skin like a painter’s canvas, rough and thick, pulled taut over a skeletal frame, lacking all of the natural softness of muscle and flesh. Their eyes burned with unholy malice as they ambulated forward, moving like marionettes being tugged to action by drunken toddlers, jerky and quick and wholly unnatural. Ba-dum. Their gaunt, blackened mouths were open in a perpetual cry of anguish and rage as they looked about for those that had deigned to disturb their eternal slumber. They practically radiated unholy malevolence as they located and closed in on their quarry, acting as though the beating heart in his chest were the thing they coveted and hated more than anything else in the world. Ba-dum. They were creatures of impossibility, the subject of stories designed to scare children, beings of legend and fable only – yet here they were, all hunger and rage held together by dark magic. The battle was upon them, and still Barron could not move. Ba-dum.
He would have died there, frozen in his tracks, mouth agape in raw disbelief as these creatures would have torn into him with their icy claws and ancient blades, had his companions wavered as well. But thank the Thirteen, they were made of stronger stuff than he in that moment of truth: Bexley, Burryaga, and Marrow wasted no time charging into the room and engaging with these abominations, while Mordantyr and Sinikka had the forethought to bar more of the shambling creatures from closing in on their flanks. And still Barron stood, his knives hanging cold and lifeless and impossibly heavy in his hands, standing firmly affixed in place by chains constructed of icy fear. Ba-dum.
After what seemed like an eternity, the bravery of his companions and the sounds of the battle at last snapped him from his reverie and Barron was finally able to shake off the dreamlike webs of disbelief that stubbornly clung to him. With a cry of rage - and fear - he charged forward, his twin blades finally coming to life in his hands as their steel teeth lashed out hungrily, biting deeply into the impossible reality that confronted them. The fight was hazy and surreal and thankfully brief, and when it was over the memory of it dissipated like smoke wafting on a gentle breeze, before finally disassembling into vague memories of skeletal faces and lifeless screams.
Barron crouched down and rested on his heels while his friends searched the corpses of the….well, corpses - though, corpses now dispossessed from the unholy magic that had granted them the artifice of life. His heart was racing as he tried to pull free of the icy fingers of fear that still stubbornly reached for him, threatening to drag him back into the pit of disbelief and inaction. He breathed long and deep, and willed his racing heart to slow as he attempted to regain at least the illusion of control. Badum badum badum..ba-dum..ba – dum…Ba – Dum. After a long moment he felt his composure return and the steady rhythm of his heart relaxed its frantic pace, at last now beating with a semblance of metronomic composure.
Barron stood back up and slid his cold steel of his blades back into worn leather sheathes and he looked around in a daze, as if seeing the aftermath of the battle for the first time. If his companions had noticed his indecision and paralysis during the fight, they gave no indication, they were busy congratulating one another on their bravery and skill against such an unimaginable foe, each practically glowing with the thrill of the fight. But these words of praise cast his way slipped off Barron like a discarded robe, the hollow words finding no purchase in his growing shame.
One solitary heartbeat with which to act; the unspoken rule of the streets. But how does that maxim hold up when those you face have no heartbeat at all? When they have no fear or worry or even a life to lose? When they have singular focus and no distraction? How can one compete against an enemy like that?
Barron was wholly aware that if he had been down here alone, his moment of indecision would have spelled his doom. And then it dawned on him. There was a problem with the saying: it was not one solitary heartbeat if you had a group united in a common cause. It was many heartbeats all working as one, beating in unison to the drum of collaboration; an army of drummers marching in time against a shared enemy. When one falters or delays, the others step in to lead the charge and maintain the rhythm. With this group there were six such heartbeats; six hearts with the blood of heroes pumping through their veins, working in unison to beat back the impossible.
Barron felt emboldened by this realization. With these champions by his side, anything was possible. As they wended their way through the catacombs in search of the unknown, Barron came to realize that he had faltered in that moment because the enemy they were up against broke the rules of the possible…those creatures simply should not exist. But they did, and still the six of them triumphed against this impossibility. And, now that the veil between possible and not had been irrevocably changed, he knew that he would not falter again in the face of the inconceivable - they had already beaten it once.
Besides, there was still a demonically possessed tree that needed to be wiped from the earth before an ambulating forest could free it from its timeless prison. Indeed, anything was now possible. And instead of finding that thought terrifying, Barron found it somehow strangely comforting. After all, he could fight anything.