Welcome to Gaia! ::

Hell was a lot cooler than he expected.

Harrison checked his jacket pocket for his gold, monogrammed cigarette case, and found it where he normally kept it. He tapped out a cigarette, and lit it, looking at the two gates. It took a trained eye to notice his hands were shaking. He cupped his hands around the end, and lit it.

At least his lighter worked.

"Can I try one?" B0nez asked.

He handed the accountant his already-lit cigarette, and took another from his case.

Black and White didn't hold any extra meanings for him.

Cops, judges, lawyers. They were the same as the people on the other side of the fence. The only color that mattered to them was green.

He had always been partial to Blue.

He got his start on the force, and became a force in his own right. He wrote the laws for his town. He rewarded those who helped him and punished those who harmed him. Nobody could say he wasn't fair. Still, the throne had never been a solitary position. Jordan and B0nez had always been the brains behind the operation. Jordan just didn't care for the spotlight, and B0nez had never been socially inclined. Harrison didn't mind handling the day-to-day s**t, doling out orders, making decisions.

The glamor, the wealth that came with it, was a definite perk. He had everything he wanted. And he could provide the people that mattered with everything they wanted too.

Rep had started out about as low as you could get on the rung. A drug mule, and not even a very good one. But it was, in Harrison's opinion, a mistake on the part of somebody else's employment office. Rep could be vicious, and ruthless, and a downright b*****d, but all these qualities counted as pluses in Harrison's book. Work was always more like play when Rep was involved.

Jordan moved pieces into place, made suggestions, finding more satisfaction in the problem solving than the money. Harrison liked that about him. He didn't lavish Jordan in jewelry and showy cars- Jordan picked out his own clothes and furniture. What Harrison could provide for him was problems, and he laid the most interesting ones at Jordan's feet the same way he gave Rep extinct furs.

The others in his organization were the same- he provided for them. Protected them. Made sure everyone had what they needed.

It was all he'd wanted.

Nobody else was here, though.

They'd said they were sending him wherever Jordan and Rep had gone, and that had been a lie. There were just the damn pillars.

"White hats and black hats," B0nez coughed, stirring Harrison out of his thoughts. B0nez was sucking on the cigarette determinedly, like it was the last thing he might ever do.

Harrison breathed in the smoke. ...Was he really breathing? Did it matter. "You pick," he told B0nez.

B0nez walked towards the black pillar, and Harrison followed.

The information they got out of it only confirmed what they had been told. They weren't real. The people inside, the clear ones, those had been real people, with real lives, trying to rescue a guy stuck in a coma.

Harrison and B0nez looked down at him now, living, flesh, scars running down his face and dressed in a white jacket. He held a pair of swords, decorated with skulls and circuitry. The voice that talked to them didn't mince words.

"So. All this over him, huh?" Harrison dropped his cigarette, snubbing the light out with his toe.

"He is swords," B0nez said, with a certain wistful delight. "That is...that is really ******** cool okay. But we still got gypped. What about that staircase, huh? What about fighting the man?"

So he was a fake. But he was something. His memories meant something. Whatever he was, or wasn't, he apparently wasn't dead yet. Even fragments deserve a shot. And so did whatever was left of Jordan and Rep.

"...What about them?" he chorused after B0nez. "What about my guys?"

Fighting had meant everything.

Amarus fought for revenge: not just because conceptually that was their nature, but because it was built into her very core. If their deck of cards reflected any one theme, it was the necessity of revenge. Her home had been taken from her, and she blamed this Voice, whatever it was. The one who spoke of mercy, but exacted a price that none would be willing to pay. It called for sacrifice, it bled them all until they were dry.

She was a shadow. She had nothing to bleed, and she never had. At least, that was what she had assumed. There were other things that one could lose. She had lost her King, before she had been able to prove herself a worthy warrior. She had lost her partner, whom she had sworn never to fight without. She had lost their home, every twisting dark stairwell and every game they had ever played together. Every conversation they had ever had. Every second of every moment.

It was all gone. And the Voice, whom she still blamed, had found a way to make it worse: not only was it all gone, it was starting to feel empty. As if none of it had ever happened. At any slight shift in the light, everything she had known would fall away, to reveal nothing.

She had died, hadn't she? Dissipated from the toxins in the very air underneath a cracked sky. She stood before two pillars, and the black one called to her. Her Kingdom, her beloved Shadow kingdom. It was as if they had sent a beacon. She was repulsed by the White pillar so thoroughly that as she passed she feigned spitting at its base, in disrespect.

Not that she could spit. Even if she wanted to really spit.

A presence conjured before her, cold and dark. The cold and the darkness, power and revenge, these were nothing new to her. Nothing unfamiliar. Many of them were core tenets of her existence. However, then it began to address her, without a name. Silently she bore its accusations.

Everyone had imperfections. It had accused her of nothing she both believed and regretted. Either it was making baseless claims that she could be washed away easily (had she not just proven that to be untrue, even when alone and abandoned by their King on the field of battle?) or it accused her of being imperfect and without salvation.

She had never asked for salvation. She assumed, from the beginning, that there was none. Conjured from Shadow, named for Judgement, she had no place in salvation. That world was for others. Others who deserved it. Amarus' features dropped slightly, as she thought of that. Did Zel deserve salvation? Had he heard this voice, when he walked this way?

Had he even walked this way? She was about to turn, automatically, to see if he was close by as he always was...

Instead, it was her own shadow she looked towards, as instructed. She tilted her head, the shadow-bells ringing, and looked at a reflection. Blackened. Hollow. She was so empty, and so dark. It was no surprise. What did surprise her was the image that followed. It had her same colour, that highlight shock of purple-pink, but... It looked like it was, or had been, so alive. It looked beautiful, and bright. It looked like someone would offer it Salvation.

And it looked, for a moment, just like her. She felt like she should be able to reach out to it. Touch that other self. That one she should recognize, like a word on the edge of her tongue. "I was created to serve my King," she said, finally addressing whatever voice spoke from the pillar. "If I am a puppet, I am his puppet, and I understand my duty. There is no shame in breaking. We will all break."

"Some of us merely fight until that point, while others will turn and hide," she hissed out, as if accusing the voice that addressed her. She thought of Zel, fighting by her side until she had lost it and ... it was her fault he had fallen, wasn't it? If only she had done what she was supposed to, if only she hadn't been overcome by the pain of losing their King and their way of life.

Amarus felt her throat catch. She was going to die, and she had never existed at all? "But I know I existed! I existed all this time, I still do, I exist in every moment that a shadow stirs in the emptiness, I exist every time a thought turns to revenge. We all do!" Amarus protested, her resolve fracturing. If she didn't exist and she never would, who was Zel? Which of them was the illusion?

"I can't be her. I won't," she protested, shaking her head. Her words took a while to seem coherent, as she took a step back. Her reflection looked lonely: was there anyone there, for her? Anyone waiting for her to return, anyone who had her back. Was there even anyone who would miss her, if she was replaced by a Fragment?

Because Amarus-called-Judgement would take that life and make it into something. Something worth a lot more than whatever that lonely reflection had made for herself. She was not sure whether her observation was true at all; in the basest, darkest corners of her own self Amarus-called-Judgement knew that she was just jealous. The opportunity to live, the potential to be real, and this 'true' self had wasted it all.

The opportunity to keep fighting.

Would Zel be somewhere, without her, never knowing they had been separated at all? She felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness: her King, her friends, Zel. All gone. All never having been there. Emptiness.

Worse than emptiness. Whatever this sensation could be called. Amarus took a step forward, wondering what she could possibly gain from whatever it was that had just talked her into a breakdown. Why did she have to be unmade, to receive a favour? For that was what it felt like: that she had been unstitched from the fabric of her life, and left to fall alone. Unused, and unnecessary; a piece of cloth with nowhere to be sewn anew. Even then, what could else could she become but a desperate patch on a life once whole?

She did not wish that on anyone. But she could say goodbye. Her throat constricted and she nodded, silently bowing her head. Her shadow-bells rang. The sound reminded her that somewhere, she might find Zel. She was getting a second chance to find out if she was the illusion, or its stipulations were. She saw the pillar fade away, and she felt a tug into wakefulness.

[[ Exit ]]

He hadn't even fallen in battle, no his going was much more embarrassing all he did was sit and wait. A wave of emotions bombarded his mind but most of all he felt a strong sting of annoyance. He hadn't gotten the chance for a noble death or to confess his feelings for Rosy or adventure. Nothing. All he got was nothing, it wasn't fair. Fair the word froze his train of thought as he lingered in the darkness. What was fair? What was anything anymore it all didn't matter right? He wasn't alive anymore? But how was he thinking? What of the Red Kingdom, the King and the battle? What was his purpose now if he even had one at all anymore?

For a moment he tried to recall past memories anything that might clue him in, Rosy, she had said they all had to die? But was he dead and then would he come back if she had been right? What if Rosy had died and then came back to try to kill him, what was the reason for that? Spinar groaned when nothing else could really be recalled and then what could felt like...it didn't matter anymore none of it. It was a horribly hollow and sickening feeling to feel nothing. Tempting his eyes open he found himself faced with two pillars, a black one and a white one.

"...." A questioning brow rose as he gazed upon the pillars in confusions, was this death? Yet another - His thoughts cut when from somewhere a voice spoke.

"Do you wish to know a secret?"

"That depends on the secret." Came a gruff answer, irritation clear in his tone. Between the two pillars the white was his choice. A few hesitant steps had him within touching distance of said pillar. There was a pull to it, a warmth unlike that he hadn't known and while standing there in the light of the pillar he felt safe, comfortable and no longer nearly as agitated. Standing he listened as the pillar spoke weaving the story of The Great King. Several objects of power they held the Kings memory, Spinar didn't quiet grasp the situation but tried to wrap around it as the pillar went on with the tale. Creation of a King? Could the symbol Pride really do such a thing? To create a King, his King, the Red King? Fragments? Was...the symbol of Pride could it be, no, yes? Confusions turned into frustration and he gritted his teeth as the pillar went on. "Candidates...." he whispered in thought, it had taken candidates and fragments of memory? Spinar was lost.

"Unfortunately, this story has a sad ending. Look below you, at your shadow."

Shadow? Spinar blinked once before slowly lowering his head to look as instructed, "for what..." His words trailed off as he gazed down into the mirror. Underneath him was an empty mirror but then slowly the reflection of nothing swirled into a moving figure. The colors of the figure hurt to look directly at so he shielded his eyes as he glanced into the mirror with growing curiosity. Something about this was so familiar but not? How did that make sense he asked himself while continuing to gaze on. It was himself in the mirror, moving, and looking now back at him. Though instead of feeling the warmth of his own gaze there was nothing but a strange coldness shivering at the chill he narrowed his eyes. Something was off, something he couldn't place just yet and it bothered him to be left so empty and unsure. As the pillar once more spoke out to him he glanced to its white surface listening intently hoping to understand but not sure if he wanted to.

"You are they. But they are not you. You were created from them, a fragment. You were created as a perfect puppet to orchestrate a perfect play. You were created to break, because you are not real."

"I don't understand..." How could he not be real? The thought devastated him and the reflection of the him that was suppose to be real infuriated him. He was real! He had to be! Rosy and he and the others, they were not meant to break! They couldn't, it was a lie, a trick it had to be!

The Pillar gives the equivalent of a mental shrug. "Shadow, fragment, replica. You are a fake. Your existence was artificially created, and thus, artificially taken from you. You will die without ever existing."

Spinar reeled back and held his head, the pillar and he. He the fake? How would he die without existing! "But I do exist.. I.." Spinar fumbled over all the racing thoughts, a warm fluid rushed from a single eye socket. He wasn't real, he was hallow, cold, a figment of himself? Fading away he felt the same sinking feeling as he had on the battlefield, it was all going away, himself or ..who he thought he was it was going and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

Nothing. It was all over. He was over? Spinar was helplessly confused as his palm wiped away the tear that tickled over his left cheek. In his own grief he barely registered the Pillar speaking again, lifting his head once more he listened.

"Come now, do you really think that is your end? Do you know how long I have waited for someone to actually converse with me? Pride is not my calling, but I will not deny myself a little bit of indulgence. Come a little closer, and I shall grant you a small favour. Call it a whim."

A favor? If only to come closer Spinar wasn't sure but since he had gotten here he wasn't about anything and why not, he was already gone wasn't he? If this was the end he might as well play it out, "alright." He managed to choke out before taking a step forward getting closer to the pillar.

"You haven't finished your role, not quite yet. Why don't you go back, say a final goodbye, just this once? Once you have said goodbye, then I will come back to claim you, and the last of your memory will fade with your existence. Even fragments deserve their own piece of reality. When the time comes, when Pride's throne finally breaks, then consider the favour returned in full. Really, it's much more entertaining this way."

When Pride's throne finally breaks? Spinar nodded his head slowly as the pillar explained the favor, to say his last goodbyes to hold onto his own reality just a little longer it was more than he could ask for. A firm nod was given and before he could do much more to accept the offered favor the pillar started fading away and felt a tug, awoken again.

[Exiting]

It was almost a relief when the end came. Evan was so lost, so confused on the battlefield. He didn't know any of these people that he felt so compelled to fight for, and when they started turning on each other, well. What was he supposed to do? He needed someone to tell him, but there had been no guiding hand to direct him on the right path. When all hell broke loose, all he wanted to do was step in and help, but he had no idea where to even begin. He didn't know who he was fighting for, or why, or what the consequences for interference would be.

Death, apparently. That, he didn't fight. He felt his strength leave him and wobbled on his feet, finally collapsing to his knees. His head fell forward, almost subserviently, and that's how he died. Some unknown force sapped the last of his strength from him, and it hurt, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that he had ultimately died as uselessly as he had lived.

"Do you wish to know a secret?" The words cut through Evan's bout of self-loathing. He shrugged noncommittally, lost to his despondence. Who would want to entrust him with something as important as a secret? Colors flickered at the edge of his vision, and he looked up to face a pair of pillars, one as starkly black as the other was blinding white. Although he gazed longingly at the white one, it wasn't for him--he wasn't worthy of it. Reluctantly, he turned towards the black one.

Evan shivered from the cold that emanated from the dark pillar, but didn't back down. He wished he had as it started degrading him, cruel words pressing him farther and farther down until his shoulders slumped, his large body compressing itself as if to make a smaller target for the harsh and painful truth. The pillar was right: he had always let himself be broken down and rearranged into whatever other people needed at any given time; he was pitiful, powerless, and far, far from perfect.

He turned his head to the ground when prompted, barking a humorless laugh when the shadow revealed nothing. How appropriate. He quieted as an image started to form in the floor below him, smoky at first, but becoming more defined as he continued to watch. It finally revealed itself to be himself, the image dressed like him and mimicking his features exactly, but it was so fundamentally different. It was standing straight and tall in a way that Evan, always afraid of reproach, never had. There was a pride in the set of its shoulders that Evan might have possessed once. This man wouldn't allow himself to be beaten down by life as Evan had--he would stand up and fight back, and if he didn't win, he would sure as hell take someone down with him. He could see little pieces of himself in there, like the pillar said, but they were only superficial.

"I don't understand," Evan murmured, his voice small as the image started to fade. "I don't exist? I'm not...real?" How did that work? He had experienced real things during the course of his life, had sense memories he couldn't possibly have had if he didn't actually exist. He didn't notice himself start to fade as he puzzled over the question of his own existence until a different voice, kinder in tone, caught his attention.

Evan cautiously shuffled towards it, afraid that whatever it had to say would further unravel his tenuous grip on reality. Instead, it offered some vague sense of hope, a promise that it would wipe the slate clean of him once he had paid or repaid a favor, whatever that meant. He had no loose ends, no one to say good bye to, no peace to make. He just wanted to see this through to the end, whatever this was. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He felt an insistent tug and a new sense of awareness. He exhaled and opened his eyes again, and found himself somewhere completely different.

((Exit to Tower))

Death was a curious thing, Sparrow thought.

It was rather like drifting off to sleep and awakening to find your entire world around you had shifted, changed its landscape so that instead of familiar faces and recognizable rooms and buildings, there was only a vast, colorless void, as though everything had turned greyscale.

He supposed this was a normal thing to feel upon death, but since he had never died before, how was he to know?

But really, it wasn't quite fair, if he thought about it a bit more deeply. He'd been a good member of the Violet Kingdom, if not one of the quieter ones. He had been loyal, careful, strong. He'd watched out for his friends (Jack stood out most notably, another "half" to himself), he'd done what the Gatekeeper had asked of him. He'd performed his duties, and he'd done them well, only to die without any sort of purpose.

How very rude.

Still, he could not say that he had not liked being in the Violet Kingdom. He had enjoyed it very much, as a matter of fact, and still there was a certain sense of...emptiness that filled him, as though the void that surrounded him was also inside of him.

"Do you wish to know a secret?"

What an odd question. Did he? Sparrow blinked, feeling as though he were fading in and out. The two pillars in front of him, like mirror reflections of one another, loomed imposingly, questioningly.

I don't know. Do I?

His fingers stretched out, the tips just barely brushing the white pillar. It seemed warmer somehow than the black, more familiar, more calm. Unlike the black, there was something about the white that drew him towards it, and he smiled a little, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

"Let me tell you a story."

I will listen to your story.

And so he did, calmly and earnestly, like a child whose mother sat beside their bed and read them to sleep. When the story finished, he took a step back, blinking curiously, and turned around, his eyes flickering down to his shadow.

Or rather, where his shadow should have been. Instead, there was a blackened mirror, black and dark, and Sparrow felt a chill run through him.

The greys shivered, shifted, color bursting through in flashes, repeated over and over again, bright, brilliant, blinding color that splintered through the grey and the white like fireworks. He felt his chest constrict, a rather unpleasant familiar, hollow sensation setting into the pit of his stomach.

The images faded.

I don't understand.

"You are a fake."

That's not very nice.

"You will die without ever existing."

Well, that seems a little unfair.

The greys felt stronger now, though not his own. His own were beginning to fade, as though he were blurring about the edges. Sparrow struggled to hold onto himself, blinking slowly, lifting a hand to look at his pale, translucent fingers as though it were something interesting he was merely observing.

Oh, you wish to talk, do you? I am a good listener, and sometimes I feel as though a good conversationalist as well. I will listen to you.

He smiled a little, closing his eyes.

I am not finished yet.


[ exit ]

Alastair was running as fast as his weak body would let him, but it wasn't fast enough. The figure in the distance began fading away as the sky burst into fragments and crumbled apart. Alastair fell to his knees with a whimper. "You a*****e..." He cried as he slumped into the vegetation. "Why did you leave me..." Harland's white jacket was still clutched in his fist as Alastair's consciousness dwindled away.

Death was an experience Alastair had thought he avoided at least three times during the chaos since the Silver tower collapsed. He was infuriated and glanced around as if searching for someone to blame. Who took him away before he was ready to go? Who had struck him down before he had the chance to reconcile? The white pillar had Alastair's attention as it spoke, and the man was somehow soothed by its presence. He listened to the story.

"I'm fake?" Alastair had a difficult time comprehending what the pillar was trying to convey, or just reluctant to believe it. He thoughtfully stared into the mirror as he watched the vibrant colors dance. "Maybe to you I am nothing... but it's ridiculous to say I don't even exist when I have memories and emotions. That's real enough to me." Alastair felt his fury returning. "Even my ability to declare myself real makes me real. My 'trivial' existence is puzzling enough as it is, I don't need some big ******** spewing nonsense riddles at me." He was probably foolish to expel so much rage towards something with presumably unimaginable power and knowledge. Alastair hardly cared. "So, get on with it. What's next for me in this ******** up afterlife?"

"Come now, do you really think that is your end? Do you know how long I have waited for someone to actually converse with me? Pride is not my calling, but I will not deny myself a little bit of indulgence. Come a little closer, and I shall grant you a small favour. Call it a whim."

As if reluctant or distrusting, Alastair slowly wandered closer to the pillar. The warmth of the white light was soothing enough to let him relinquish his anger for good. Go back and say goodbye, it said. Good. Alastair thought, almost in tears with the possibility of being reunited with Harland one last time. That's all I wanted.

[ Exit ]

If he could have smiled then, Harland would have. He didn't recognize the woman who blessed him with vengeance in her face: she must have been of the Black Kingdom, given her Shadow form. Those denizens were pretty much unmistakable. He wondered, briefly, what had motivated her. She hadn't even explained herself, introduced herself, or anything.

He had been on the battlefield, watching the sky break as he felt the corrupted air attack his lungs, and he had thought that it would be okay. It was okay. And she had taken the last necessity to feel pain from him, released him from the pressure of doing what was right for Alastair, for Crispin, for his lotalty to Silver Kingdom. At the end, he had died as one of the extinct and potentially obsolete Silver Kingdom denizens. He had not converted, not like Crispin had.

He was still Harland. But Harland Leander Belle was dead, now. And that, even, would be okay. How could he know what happened after death, after all, if he did not die himself? He had even died without learning if Alastair resented him or not, died without worrying if Crispin would ever remember them, and died without being concerned which Kingdoms fell or rose to power.

Even though he should feel that the hollowness of his memories was a bad thing, Harland was only comforted by the feeling. Things had not gone particularly well for the man, nor his companions, but they could have gone so much worse. Much of the in-fighting in Purple kingdom did not concern him. He was feeling just fine, he had gathered a fair share of Miasma to present to the Violet King in thanks for his hospitality. Harland had no real regrets. He was not one to excel on the battlefield.

He just enjoyed rounding up information, finding out how things worked, and he would help the others forge their way through what had happened to them. That was it. Harland made decisions with surety in his actions; he seldom had time to doubt himself. If anything, that had become somewhat of a bad flaw: it was difficult for Harland to change his course or stay his hand if it seemed that actions needed to be taken. Especially disciplinary ones. When Crispin had converted to Violet and forgotten them all, Harland had marked his name on his internal list of casualties. Those that his Kingdom had lost.

Now Harland marked himself on that list, in amusement, as he came to and saw the white pillar and the black pillar. He had never been one to descend into darkness, so naturally he approached the white pillar.

Do you wish to know a secret?

Harland smiled. "Always," he assured the mystery speaker. He always wanted to know more. He craved fact, information, almost as much as he needed air, or order. The white pillar filled him with a sensation of protection, light, warmth. Harland smiled wider, shutting his eyes, as if basking in the light. It felt good, especially now that his jacket was gone. He could remember exactly where he had left it, when, and why: Harland could never escape his own memories.

His smile faded as the pillar told its story. A story with a sad ending? Harland rejected its ending, substituted it with his own. It couldn't end badly. It wasn't over, not yet. And Harland, even when the odds were stacked against him, would keep moving to shape his own destiny to his liking. It wasn't over until there were no more physical moves left to be made, and Harland did not feel by any means that he was cornered yet.

He looked down at his shadow, as the Pillar instructed. All he saw was an empty mirror. Blank. Black. Hollow. And then, his reflection: colours and light and a man with freckles just like his stared back at him with a grin. Harland reached up and brushed at his cheek with his gloved hand. The man still wore a jacket just like the one he had worn... but this jacket had beautiful golden embroidery and lovely golden piping. Nothing like the plain one he had worn, in that respect. But everything else was right. Every feature Harland had in Silver was exaggerated in this reflection: he looked so self-assured, so obstinate, and his eyes sparked with light as though the stories he knew were neverending.

"A fragment? How could I be a fragment? I have friends, ambitions, a past-- I am myself," Harland argued."With all due respect," Harland added, quickly, realizing it may have seemed a bit rude to argue with whatever this Pillar might be.

If one could even argue with a pillar. "And I remain unbroken, so what then? I don't understand..."

"How could what I know be so wrong?" Harland asked, obstinate at first, and then his voice and face cracked. He looked like everything good about him had been stripped away, cut from him so that he had nothing left. Everything he had ever known, his precious facts, information and stories, gone. But how could that be?

Harland felt himself fade, as his pain reached a crescendo. He had tried to gather the lost Silvers, those he named his friends, he had tried to reassure them even in the darkest times. He had tried so hard to stand even when everything made him feel as though it was time to kneel under the weight of loss.

He stepped closer, to accept the favour he had been promised. "Would you be so kind?" Harland asked, his voice cracking just as his resolve had. His eyes were blurry, and he coughed to clear his throat, burrying his sorrow. He had been so calm; was that calmness only the pain before giving into grief? How could he be so weak? Even at the end, he had remained loyal to his Kingdom, even without a King and without a home.

"Pardon me, but... Another time?" Harland asked, before he woke again.

Harland Leander Belle woke in the same body as he had left, but this time he was struggling to hide the fact that what he had learned had broken him. For a man who coveted information, traded it like a currency, losing everything he had believed in was not easy to take. Death was a simple concept, compared to being a fragment of a reality he would never touch.

Was the real Harland out there, somewhere? The only thought he had left to steel him was the hope that perhaps that Harland knew even while he, himself, was faced with unknowing.