by Luke Tarzian
Varésh bowed his head. "I have seen—I have known this for a time. It is why I must find Mirkvahíl. To make things right, to quell the destruction Luminíl has wrought. To save her. To…to…" He steeled himself and looked Alerion in the eyes. "To be better, different from my father. To be a true Architect. To rear and nurture worlds, not remake them in my image. Please."
Alerion frowned. “There is passion in your words, Varésh Lúm-talé. Sincerity wrought from guilt. But even if you are able to find Mirkvahíl I fear she will be of little use to your cause. I have seen her soul and it is shattered. Her mind is lost.”
"Still, I have to try," Varésh said.
“I know. The way ahead is dangerous,” Alerion said. “There are things you will learn that have the power to destroy you.”
“Rightfully so,” Varésh murmured.
“Indeed.” Alerion held his hand out to Varésh. His expression softened and for a moment Varésh swore he saw a hint of sympathy in that gray stare. “When you are ready I will deliver you from sleep. Stay vigilant.”
Varésh took Alerion's hand and the lake-world melted away in rivulets.
He awoke in Hang-Dead Forest with a gasp.
Varésh's face burned something fierce. He ran his fingers gingerly along the lacerations. They had closed of their own volition, scarred; Sonja's talons had also missed his eyes and he drank the darkness in. It was beautiful.
"Stand," Alerion commanded, once more a voice in Varésh's head.
Varésh stood, ears trained to a distant song, that of the Phoenix Mirkvahíl. He was growing closer; his quarry, his destiny was perhaps only hours away on the other side of Hang-Dead Forest.
Where is Sonja? he asked of Alerion.
"About," Alerion said. "They all are."
A shiver crept up Varésh's spine. He had failed to quell Sonja's wrath—how did he expect to best all the rusalks? How many did all even mean? He supposed it didn't matter. He would either reach his destination or he would die trying. It was all part of the experience of failure. It was all part of redemption, and Celestials, did Varésh want to be redeemed.
He steeled his nerves and walked.
8
Imposter Syndrome
Then
Varésh Lúm-talé had never seen a planet so beautiful as Harthe, Harmony in the Celestial tongue. This celestial sphere in all its splendor—it was his to mold, his to remake in a manner of speaking. Some planets were little more than spherical scenery, devoid of any sentient life. Others were blooming. And then there were some, like Harthe, wrought from their own unique pillars of creation yet, for whatever reason, needing that extra nudge.
Varésh had always wanted to nudge and now he had the perfect opportunity—if the locals saw fit to accept his aid. He walked the grassland, hands behind his back, nose keen to the sweet perfume of myriad flowers riding on the wind. To his left sat a great lake, placid, like a mirror or a doorway to an inverse world.
"So much I could do here," he mused. "What a world I could make of Harmony. It could be the greatest restoration, the greatest maturation in Celestial history. Orchestrated by me, a novice Architect."
So many times Varésh had fantasized about getting his chance to prove himself to his people and their emperor, his father. There were many who believed Varésh had been given this responsibility simply because of his birthright, but if they really knew Ouran, really knew what made him tick, they would realize Varésh had been anything but his favored son. In fact, at times, Varésh had felt he wasn't Ouran's son. Ouran was a man of vision. Varésh had…pieces of visions, and that was about it. Ambition but without the wherewithal to capitalize on his intent.
Until now. His power surged at the notion. The energy, radich, swam through him like an eager serpent toward its prey. So much possibility, Varésh thought. What would his radich take the form of here? What energies did these great pillars of creation of wield? Varésh salivated at the thought, at the anticipation. He needed to know. He burned to.
And yet… He couldn't ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind, chiding the Celestials and the emulative nature of radich—possibility in the Celestial vernacular. There were, unfortunately, many a Celestial Architects through the history of Indris who had used their power for lesser, more…unconscionable things.
But I will not be one of them, Varésh thought, dropping to his knees and closing his eyes.
"I will not."
Now
Retrospection was both enlightening and frightening. Varésh remembered well the first time he had set foot on Harthe, the first time he had breathed its sweet air. The first time a vision for what this planet could be had manifested wholly in his mind. All of that seemed so very long ago. A dot of light in what had otherwise been a stumble through darkness and uncertainty.
"Do you know what I find most interesting?" Alerion asked. "About you as you were then and you as you are now? A sense of hope, dedication wrought not from a hungering for control, but from the desire to make things better."
I suppose it's good someone sees that, Varésh thought. All I see is a fool.
"We are all of us fools at some point in our lives," Alerion said. "Myself included."
Varésh wasn't sure what Alerion meant by that. He brushed it from his mind and continued through Hang-Dead Forest, vigilant to every sound, spooked by every cracking twig or gust of wind. He almost wished Sonja and the other rusalks would show themselves. Then, at the very least, he would know what pitiful things were watching him.
Do you recall ever knowing anyone named Rhona or Djen? Varésh asked. You showed me a conversation with myself from Rhona's perspective but…
"You still can't recall having ever met either of them," Alerion said. "You can thank Luminíl's unbounded mirkúr for those gaps in your memory. It magnifies the guilt and that in turn magnifies repression."
So how is it I have come to remember what I have on this journey? Varésh asked.
"I am balance," Alerion said. "I both destroy and preserve. Think of it as…removing mental blocks."
I suppose that makes sense, Varésh thought. He was more damaged than he had first thought. Rightfully so. After everything he had done why would he want to remember any of that? It was like Alerion said—truths were often times lies one told oneself. The Sonja he had first met in the meadow, her sweetness and confidence in him, had been a lie. Fuck,Varésh's very guise was a lie. How many more truths had he fabricated? What monstrosities yet awaited him?
At length he came to a small clearing. In its center was an effigy. He knew in his gut he should recognize it, knew it should make him feel something—but he could not, and it did not. He stood there, staring at the eldritch thing, little more than a hood and robe from which protruded six great wings.
"What have I forgotten?" he asked the effigy. "What shame have I repressed?"
The statue seemed to shift at his words. The forest dilated, leaving Varésh and the effigy in a void neither dark nor light but rather both at once. He felt dizzy, nauseous. What was this? Where was he? What was he?
Desolator. Woe Bringer, said the statue. As we have epithets so too do you, Varésh Lúm-talé. you Are the very definition of your name—did your father never tell you what your name translates to? Falsity. You have always been a lie. From the time of your birth, until the day you die, and for eternity, you will always be a lie.
Fragments of stone exploded outward from the effigy, revealing the towering monstrosity within. Dark as night, six feathered wings, and an orb of stark white light where a face should sit. It reached for Varésh and plucked him from where he stood with its thumb and index finger.
Like a carrion bird to a corpse, I will devour you, it said. I will eat your pretense. And you will know. Everything.
It held him over its luminescent face; the light dilated to reveal a cavernous void.
Varésh shrieked as he fell.
This will be the second worst thing you learn of yourself.
You walk the streets of
Banerowos with intent born of desire. You tell yourself you are doing this thing because you wish only to nurture harthe to greatness, whatever that may be; that is not yet known to you. You tell yourself you do this thing because only you and you alone know how to save this infinitesimal world. You are an architect. You were born for this—it is in your very blood.
The night is cold and your blood runs hot with anticipation. You tell yourself you were sent here for a reason. Alerion, Mirkvahíl, and Luminíl…they require guidance, they require molding. They must see things as you do lest they destroy this orb they call their home, their creation. Things have gone well enough but there is always room for error. if only they could see…
"The right thing is often times the hardest," you whisper to yourself. You urge yourself to believe it, though deep in the bowels of your existence, in that nook in which some semblance of your conscience still remains, you know that this is wrong. Why else would it be so difficult?
You come to the lake you so often times find yourself staring into. It is beautiful as always. It makes you think of home, of Indris in a way. So many stars collecting in that placid surface, so many possibilities.
"Varésh. well met," Alerion greets. He stands before the lake, hands clasped behind his back. His eyelids are heavy and he wears a soft smile; he has had a good day. "How are you this evening? What brings you here?"
"Well," you reply, mimicking his posture. "Just…admiring the lake as I am wont to do."
"She is a sight," Alerion says. His storm-gray eyes shine bright without the aid of light and his shoulder-length raven hair is pulled back behind his ears. His wings hang limply from his back, touching the grass beneath his feet. How beautiful they are. How beautiful a thing Alerion is.
"Harthe has come a way these years," you say. It is true. There has been great progress where the evolution of harmony is concerned. Banerowos is a jewel. Jémoon is…something you cannot put words to. But you love it dearly. "Still, I find myself fearful, wary. I dread the tipping of the scale."
"It is a necessary thing," Alerion says. "Without destruction there can be no evolution."
"Easy for you to say." You sigh. You feel a tickle in your throat. "You are balance made manifest. That all makes sense to you. I just…" You have seen so much destruction. You have seen worlds annihilated, you have seen people slaughtered, and for what? A witness to chaos without the power to prevent it. "I cannot let that be. It is possible to evolve without destroying what we have built. Preservation is always an option."
Your radich burns inside of you. Burns so hot it makes you cold. It hurts like nothing you have ever known, But it is a price you must pay. You concentrate, pushing the energy into the blade beneath your cloak. Urging your radich, willing it to shift, to manifest itself as mirkúr. Tears well in your eyes and you swallow the lump in your throat. You don't know if you are ready for this—but you must be. You must have strength.
You have never killed a god before.
Quick as lightning you draw the blade and thrust it into Alerion's chest, piercing bone and punching through his heart. He wears surprise as you bring him to the grass, as you cradle him in your lap.
"This is for the best," you whisper, you urge yourself to believe amidst the distant, muffled shriek from the abyss of your existence. "Forgive me."
Forgive you—for the blade you've buried in his chest and for the atrocity you have been conjuring this entire time. Alerion turns to ash without a word. You stand to admire your reflection in the lake and smile.
You will make a better god, a better creator than Alerion ever could.
You will make a better Alerion than he ever could.
Varésh flailed in the darkness. Shrieked and tore at his eyes, at everything he was.
The worst is yet to come, the statue hissed. I will break you a thousand times over. And when I am done, Varésh Lúm-talé…I will do it all again. Over and over. For as long as you may live.
He was drowning, now. Liquid filled his lungs.
The darkness grew.
Then Varésh saw a man.
"Nerósh."
You reach for the man. He puts a steadying hand on your arm. You are dying. He and the rest of your acolytes have done their best these last months but the end is inevitable. Your end is inevitable. The empire is on the brink of collapse; Indris wilts beneath a shroud of civil war and parasites unleashed from Celestials know where.
"Nerósh," you murmur. He has been your loyalist follower for as long as you can recall, the person whom you trust above all others; he is your friend. You have very few of those left, if you ever had any at all.
"Ouran'il will soon be overrun," Nerósh says. You notice the blood dripping down his face, the signs of battle on his garb. "But…we have found a way." The way he says those words, the glint in his orange eyes… "A way to ensure you carry on. It is untested but—"
"Do it," you say. If there is even a chance, you must take it. The empire must survive; the seeds of resurrection must be sown. "Whatever it is, whatever the cost, Nerósh…please." Such a foreign word, that. You have never pled for anything in your life."
Nerósh bows his head, touches his left shoulder in salute. "As you command, Majesty." He looks up, looks you dead in the eyes, bores into you with a stare that says more than words ever could. "It has been an honor, Ouran."
There is a burst of light, scalding, shrieking, horrible.
Chaos.
Muffled annihilation.
You are hurtling through…something. Through madness.
The velocity flays you.
You are screaming muscle.
You are howling bone.
You are…weightless. A ghost among the stars. A spectator above the pandemonium and ruin of Indris, of Ouran'il, the city you built so long ago. You cry phantom tears; they drip down phantom cheeks.
Your memories shift and crack. All fades to black.
A blackness unlike anything you have ever known.
Then, a light.
A lake. Your reflection gazes up at you. You are Nerósh, but you are not. You are ouran, but you do not remember. You are something else, someone else, with memories from a childhood of yore.
You are Varésh Lúm-talé, son of Ouran.
You are the greatest lie of all.
Varésh had never retched so much in his life. This was surely a trick of the mind, this eldritch entity trying to break him with falsities. It had to be. He needed it to be. He was not his father, he was not and never had been Ouran, Celestial Emperor of Indris—right?
"R-R…ight?" he wheezed.
I told you I would break you, Varésh Lúm-talé. I told you the worst was yet to come and now you know, the entity said. Now you know the extent of your lie. You were never meant to nurture Harthe to greatness—your past made it so. It is in your blood, your bones, your soul to conquer in your given name. You are vanity made manifest, arrogance in the flesh, and I am here to put you in your place. You will lose your mind.
From the darkness came that awful, faceless orb of light. Blinding. Searing. Spellbinding.
See your lies, Varésh Lúm-talé, it hissed. See the ruin you have caused. See them die—each and every one of them. See your Sonja as she flails from her noose—
The entity shrieked. Its light dimmed and an ethereal figure took shape, threads of illum and mirkúr streaming outward from its feathered wings to quell the hostility.
Alerion…
“This is not the way,” Alerion said.
The entity snarled, raging against its tethers. You know well what imprisoning me does. Why stoke entropy to save this…this thing, this lie of a man?
“Balance,” Alerion said. The energies surged and the brilliance of his wings began to fade.
The darkness exploded with a howl. When the chaos cleared Varésh was kneeling before the effigy in the clearing in the woods.
“That…what—was that—?”
“Luminíl,” Alerion confirmed. “A manifestation of her at least
, tied to this sorry place. Stand, Varésh Lúm-talé. You must find Mirkvahíl. If we hope to have even the slightest chance of tempering Luminíl, of righting your atrocities, we must find the Phoenix before it is too late.”
Varésh pushed himself to stand. His knees knocked together and his stomach threatened to empty itself further. He didn't know what to think anymore, of himself, of anything, of anything he had done. Was this quest, this undertaking to find the Phoenix even worth it? Was he worthy of being in the presence of Mirkvahíl or would the truth of his existence gradually, unconsciously force him to commit such a string of atrocities again?
Just…try, he urged himself. Do something instead of standing here, wallowing in your failure.
So he walked.
Mirkvahíl's song grew louder.
9
Dear Insanity
At one point in her life Rhona would have found the Bone Garden a place of beauty. To sit amongst and converse with the ruined dead was a privilege, the peace provided by the garden second to none.
Now, here in this place? Every fiber of her being screamed to turn around, to flee through those gates of bone and mirkúr and hurry across the bridge, to never come back. Guilt was such a powerful thing and it was all Rhona could do to persevere, to continue into the garden depths as muffled cries and moans rang out around her like a song she once had known and loved.
"Find strength," Fiel whimpered. "You must."
In what? From where? The Bone Garden was surely meant to do exactly what it was doing now, sapping will, instilling dread, making Rhona wonder why she had ever thought to come here. Why should she be so privileged as to speak with the dead, with the many souls for whom she, Alerion, Mirkvahíl, and so many others were responsible for sentencing to this awful place?