Dark Ends

by Clayton Snyder

  The owl hooted softly; there was sympathy in its stare. It flapped its wings and in a twist of light the bird became a man, feather-cloaked and cowled. He offered Cailean a taloned hand and pulled him to his feet, wrapped him in a warm and comforting embrace.

  "Truth resides in madness," said the man, "just as madness lurks in truth. Each is requisite for symmetry lest Pandemonium drink the world. 'Tis the utmost principle of our world, O Bane of Nuul; hope endures."

  Cailean was silent as he synthesized the words. Was it possible to sunder Bar from Galska Nuul? Had his husband been a complicated fiction or were Bar and Galska Nuul two separate halves of something more? Reservation warred with desperation and he felt his skull might crack beneath the weight of his internal plight.

  "How do I find the moon?" he finally asked, and he withdrew from the man's embrace.

  The man gestured toward the trees. "Walk and you will know, for she calls to you and you alone." He shed his cloak, gifting it to Cailean's scarred and shivering frame. "This will ward you on your way."

  The cloak was soft and light, yet at the same time warm like nothing Cailean had ever worn. He gazed at the man, this statuesque specimen of midnight flesh, of taloned hands and feet and twisting horns that shone with all the splendor of a starry night.

  "Thank you," Cailean said. "Who are you?"

  "An acolyte," said the man, "but if you wish then you may call me Pan."

  There was a fleeting familiarity about the name, but it went as quickly as it came.

  "Thank you, Pan."

  Pan bowed his head. "Farewell, O Bane of Nuul. May you find the symmetry you seek."

  Then, he vanished in a snap of light.

  Cailean was alone.

  He closed his eyes and breathed the forest air, let the wet and cold awaken whispers in his mind. "Memory is medication," they intoned, "so make your medicine, my sweet. Make your medicine and drink it deep."

  It tasted of finality and woe. Cailean knew where it would lead.

  So he went.

  CHAPTER FIVE: ELDRITCH MOON

  And so the forest whispered, "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

  And the fog sung, "I am ghost. Forever, I am ghost."

  Cailean clutched his feathered cloak. This wood was old, older even than Drahl Muuz. He could feel it in the earth beneath his feet, the biting wind against his cheeks; could taste it in the air and smell it in the rain.

  Yet against the forest's melancholy will he persevered, his atrophy allayed and seemingly entombed within the feathers of his cloak. With every step they shone a pastel blue; with every step his strength returned, until he felt that he could sprint. "Ig tahn na'tuul," he prayed in thanks to Lúm Duu'Mahl and Pan.

  Time was boundless as the dark wood dragged him deep. Eventually the forest fell to ruin and a strange necropolis reared its crumbling vine-constricted head. Cailean gripped his cover tighter yet, trying to find a modicum of courage beneath its feathered warmth. Halfway through the boneyard he procured a pair of tattered pants; it was nice to not feel so completely bare.

  He crossed through dust and lichen-covered rocks, up perished stairs, and underneath an arch, scrutinized all the while by a host of winged effigies with missing eyes. Had this place at one time been a shrine? Perhaps a temple where the dead were blessed before their bodies met the earth?

  Or maybe something worse.

  Cailean came to a pool of murky water at the promenade's end. The rain had stopped, he realized, for he could see the moon reflected clearly in the placid gloom. He touched the water and it hissed. Cailean stumbled back.

  "What the fuck?"

  The surface rippled and a head appeared, inset with full-moon eyes. "Who are you?"

  "Cailean Catil." He held his ground and wished he had a blade. "Who are you?"

  She rose from the water, elegant and lithe, with leather wings and taloned hands, her flesh like marble and her hair stark white. She approached and Cailean felt a pang of dread. "Shy Rii'Vahl," the creature said. "Untethered acolyte and guardian of the eldritch moon."

  Cailean stifled his surprise. The Untethered were supposed to be a myth, a supposition of an angel neither fallen nor divine, but rather something in between. It was ironic, then, this thing claimed guardianship of anything other than itself.

  "I don't suppose that you might let me drink of her…" said Cailean.

  Shy Rii'Vahl bore her teeth. "The eldritch moon has not been drunk in all her countless years."

  "And yet she called to me and me alone," said Cailean, holding up his hands. "Just a sip is all I ask—"

  His stomach roared and he doubled over onto his knees, once more retching midnight ichor. No, a voice inside him moaned. More than just a sip. Cailean eyed the pool and thirsted for the moon like styrgé did for gore.

  Shy Rii'Vahl snarled and her talons grew in length. "It clings to you like hoarfrost, does the touch of Galska Nuul, and it will claim you for its own. Once marked, always marked. I will end you lest you spread my fallen brother's blight."

  Cailean rose and made for Shy Rii'Vahl. His thirst was maddening and it spurred him on. "She called to me and I must drink." The feathers of his mantle shone a violent red. "You will let me drink."

  Shy Rii'Vahl charged him with a screech.

  Cailean caught her by the throat and held her in the air. He squeezed—tight, tighter yet as the Untethered flailed. Her talons raked his arms and chest but Cailean did not relent. The newfound power coursing through him ached to break her neck, to end the irony she called her life. It longed to quench its thirst, to drink the eldritch moon and sate its quickly growing rage.

  Shy Rii'Vahl fell limp with a final squeeze, at a muffled snap, and Cailean let her body crumple at his feet.

  "Fool," he muttered, and he eyed the eldritch moon, reflecting luringly within the pool.

  He knelt before its edge, cupped his hands, and drew the water to his lips.

  Sweet, the voice inside him moaned. So absolutely sweet.

  And Cailean drank.

  And drank.

  And drank—

  The night was cool and the wind kissed Cailean's flesh.

  He was amongst the stars—he was of the stars and the world was small. Gossamer threads of cloud curled round his arms and legs and the astral breeze crooned songs like he had never heard. He felt…whole. At peace for the first time in Keepers knew how long.

  Cailean declined his head and beheld the moon in all her soft grandeur. Her light was neither warm nor cool, but somewhere perfectly in between. It reminded him of Bar and the countless nights they'd gazed upon the sea.

  "We meet," said a voice, and a specter manifested before the moon. "At last we meet."

  The specter neared and Cailean sensed no mal intent. The ghost exuded peace and Cailean felt at ease. She was lithe, composed of light like every angel was—and Cailean was sure that's what she was; her gossamer wings betrayed as much.

  But she was something more.

  "I am Korska Nuul," the angel said. "And I am finally free, all thanks to you." She took his hands and pulled him close, breathed him deep and sighed. "I see, now. Things have changed—the coin has flipped."

  Cailean frowned. "What—"

  "Please," said Korska Nuul, and there was sorrow in her plea, "set my brother free."

  "Galska Nuul," Cailean murmured. His heart sunk—he knew what freedom meant and it made him ache. Pained him in the worst of ways. He looked at Korska Nuul. "Is there a chance…? What I mean is…Bar."

  "The devil is not so black as he is painted, Cailean Catil," said Korska Nuul, "but the end is not for us to make, for destiny does as balance wills." She kissed his forehead. "Sleep, now, weary wanderer. Rest, for peace is scarce and the road is long."

  She cupped his cheeks and the world dissolved.

  The gray of dawn was overhead when Cailean finally awoke.

  He stood with little ceremony from the empty pool, walking past the corpse of Shy Rii'Vahl. She was mad—the Untethered al
l were likely mad—and the only logical release was death. She was free and Cailean was glad; he envied Shy Rii'Vahl in the most woebegone of ways.

  He started from the ruin at a walk, Pan's feathered cowl pulled past his eyes; they were sensitive to light. Cailean wasn't sure what energies of yore resided in that pool, but, for better or for worse, the rumbling in his gut suggested drinking of that placid gloom had been the proper choice; his mantle shone a warming pastel green. He had done as Pan had willed and he had freed a gentle ghost, cleansed his body of whatever hellish thirst his resurrection had instilled.

  Cailean lingered on the words of Korska Nuul—had she been real or just a dream?—and they filled his heart with dread, roused sorrow from its sleep. "Destiny does as balance wills." He had never felt so small as when considering what that meant and it made him sick.

  He traversed the northern trees and it wasn't long before they thinned and melded with a meadow vast and gold. A sea of reeds beneath the wan light of a hidden sun—the hidden sun, for in the distance was a man, the monster Cailean had loved.

  Bar had brought him home.

  CHAPTER SIX: HIDDEN SUN

  Then—The Month of Nua, Dawn Year 1150

  Cailean adored Drahl Muuz. Its old grandeur exuded charm in a way that made him think of youth-year tales. From an early age he'd had a wild mind, had dreamt of far off places in a world beyond the war-scarred Ariath he called his home.

  Now here he was, in a place with troubles of its own, though he supposed that anywhere was subject to a darkness of a kind. That just seemed to be the way things worked, the way the world was wrought, and what could he do but fight?

  "Beautiful creatures, angels."

  Cailean started at the voice; he hadn't realized anyone was there. He turned and the face that greeted him was handsome in a bookish way, inset with sunset eyes and framed by locks of scarlet shimmering in the morning light. He had seen this man before—they both were new to the order of the Galrun Muir.

  "Indeed," said Cailean. He felt a little hot. He extended his hand. "Name's Cailean."

  "Bar," said the man, and he shook Cailean's hand. His grasp was firm, his touch was soft.

  Cailean was spellbound.

  Now—The Month of Cemb, Black Year 1155

  Bar hadn't aged a day. In fact, he looked more beautiful than he ever had, and Cailean hated him for that. He hated Bar for a great many things, but the fallen angel's elegance only served to magnify his monstrousness—and what a beastly thing he was.

  Cailean strode toward Bar and Bar to him. They stopped a couple feet away from one another. Those eyes, thought Cailean, and he balled his hand into a fist. Those fucking sunset eyes. He struck Bar in the chest and the fallen angel stumbled back a foot. Bar did not react; there was something similar to sorrow in his eyes—weariness, perhaps?

  "Here I am," hissed Cailean. "What do you want? What do you need you…you…"

  Cailean shook his head and gulped the morning air. He was at a loss for words despite the fact he had so many things he longed to say. To scream. To shout. His chest was tight and a cold sweat slicked his brow. He pulled the cowl away so Bar could see his face, could look him squarely in the eyes.

  Bar said nothing. And, save the glint of something in his eyes, his face betrayed no semblance of emotion. Had he a blade, Cailean liked to think he would have punched it through his monster-husband's chest, just the way that Bar had done to him.

  But Cailean knew he never could. It was fantasy of the blackest kind.

  Bar reached for his face. Cailean smacked his hand away.

  "You arrogant fuck," Cailean hissed. "You think that after all this time, after all you put me through, after murdering me, you get to touch me as if nothing happened? As if things are just the way they were when they were good?"

  Bar lowered his hand.

  Still, Cailean's heartache raged, and he was hotter than the day he first met Bar. "You brought me here, the grass where we were wed. Of all the fucking places, Bar…—SAY SOMETHING! Tell me this is just a dream, that we're home, asleep and safe within each other's arms. That I'm feverish and the hell I've been subjected to is…—fuck." A sob escaped his lips. "Keepers damn you, Bar…"

  "You were always pretty when you cried," said Bar and his voice was not the buzzing flies of Galska Nuul, but simply, unequivocally Bar, as soft and warm as it had always been. He reached for Cailean, this time taking both his hands inside his own.

  Cailean wanted to pull away. Damn it all, but he wanted to with everything he had.

  But he could not. "Fuck you," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat, and he allowed the fallen angel to pull him close and hold him tight, as tightly as he had the night that they'd been wed, the night the lie that was their future came to be.

  "I never wanted this," said Bar. "This agony and madness. But alas, destiny does as balance wills, and balance is the cruelest aspiration of them all. A master unfathomable in its strength." He pulled away from Cailean and his eyes were wet with tears, his wan cheeks streaked with woe.

  "You're saying what, then?" Cailean asked. "That you're some sort of…puppet?"

  Bar nodded. "I suppose. Think of the world as a coin, and think of the coin as balance—on one side Law, the other Entropy. From Entropy, Law. From both, balance. As I said to you before, I am that which provokes Law to ascend.

  "But things are different now," said Bar. A cool breeze tossed his hair. "The coin has flipped to favor Law, and on a scale far larger than you know. You drank the eldritch moon, you freed my sister Korska Nuul as I had planned—she is central to a history that's yet to pass. As are you. That's why I brought you back—destiny does as balance wills, and I am but a cog in the machine."

  The pervading silence chilled and heated Cailean as he tried to synthesize what Bar had said. The fallen angel was a pawn in a game of unfathomable scale (or so he claimed)—so what was Cailean to him? A simple toy?

  "The devil is not so black as he is painted," echoed Korska Nuul inside his mind. "But the end is not for us to make."

  Destiny did as balance willed.

  "I loved you more than anything," said Bar. "Still do…but things are complicated in the worst of ways; they always were. If the choice was mine, the lie we lived would be our truth. No—it is our truth…" Bar was weeping, now. "But every truth has its end. Come to me, my sweet."

  Cailean started forward and his steps were not his own. A stronger will pervaded him and it would not relent.

  "Pan did well to cloak you, to entreat you drink the moon," said Bar. "My sister is free and your resurrection thirst is dissolved—now, we sing our final song." He took Cailean in his arms, in an embrace that awakened memories of yesteryear, and Cailean returned the touch, held Bar against his chest as the sunlight crept between the clouds.

  "I am ghost," Bar sung softly in his ear. "Forever, I am ghost."

  He pulled away. For a minute, he was Bar, just as he had been that evening in Drahl Muuz.

  For a minute, he was Bar, the Galrun Muir who'd never met a book he didn't like.

  Bar, the man whose sunset eyes had captivated Cailean from the day they'd met.

  The man with whom he'd shared a beautiful lie.

  The truth inside the madness that was Galska Nuul.

  For a minute, he was Bar.

  Cailean punched the dagger through his chest.

  There was sunshine, and the meadow was ablaze with gentle light. The air was sweet with the scent of myriad perfumes, pungent with the tang of iron. Cailean held Bar’s body close. It was still warm despite the blood crying around the dagger impaled in Bar’s chest—the dagger with which he'd murdered Cailean in Drahl Muuz.

  You fool, Cailean thought, choking back tears. You fucking beautiful fool.

  In his heart of hearts Cailean knew Bar’s death had been for the best. The fallen angel had said so himself in his way. “From Entropy, Law. From both, balance.” Peace. Cailean wondered what that might feel like. He’d jumped from one war to the n
ext, though searching for what, he was still unsure. It certainly wasn’t this. This was just chaos of a different kind, the chaos brought by Law, and Keepers did it hurt something fierce.

  Cailean laid Bar down in the grass and sobbed as uncertainty claimed his world for its own.

  EPILOGUE: THE ALBATROSS

  Two Months Later—The Month of Bru, Dawn Year 1156

  Cailean rode in silence through the moonlit night, Harbanan little more than a silhouette in his wake. He'd been expelled from the Galrun Muir in secret. Things dead were meant to stay as such, but Cailean had returned at the hand of Galska Nuul. He'd been Touched; he was a walking scourge, so said the indices of the Galrun Muir. Once marked, always marked. He hadn't argued; he'd agreed wholeheartedly to leave. Bar was dead and Cailean was lost. There was nothing for him here.

  Cailean reached beneath his shirt, fingering the scar above his heart, the place where Bar had sheathed his blade little more than a year before. All in the name of balance, the fallen angel had intoned. An eternal tug of war between the vehicles of Entropy and Law. After all, life was not just ending wars, but igniting them as well.

  He thought back to Ariath, to the culling sprees he'd so passionately abhorred. His gut churned, tears of rage filled his eyes, and Cailean cursed himself for finally seeing even a modicum of logic in such savage acts of war. If there was one point Galska Nuul had driven home, it was the fact that things were never as they seemed. That, sometimes, beauty masked the monster underneath—and what a monstrous creature Bar had been.

  "Ig tahn na'tuul," he murmured, though to what or whom he wasn't sure. To himself? That seemed unlikely. How could he rest? How could he be at ease with all that he had seen, with all that he had done?

  To Harbanan, then. To its people, to its streets and structures. To the memories of simpler times. To the ecstasy of ignorance. To Leyandra and the Galrun Muir, though he knew their work was far from done.