With Qaira’s ping, I terminated the stream and vacated RQ2. Yahweh was in his room, staring tiredly at his apothecary cabinet. He barely heard me enter, eventually glancing sideways in acknowledgement after I’d stood there for nearly half a minute.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But now you don’t look so well.”
He rubbed his face, sighing into his hands. “Just tired.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard this a few times already, but I’m really sorry about Ziranel.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, “although your condolences make it seem like he’s dead.”
I nodded, understanding. “I’m also sorry about earlier today. I don’t believe you tried to sabotage me. It was a heated moment.”
Yahweh removed the sash from around his head, exposing the scar across his eye. He then sank on the bed and gestured to the chair near his desk. I accepted the invitation, and sat. “If you’re apologizing, then so should I,” he said, gazing at the ceiling. “I said some unsavory things as well. Please excuse me, I haven’t been myself.”
“You’re very much excused.”
Then, silence. Yahweh stared at the ceiling, and I stared at him.
I shifted, uncomfortable. “Really, Yahweh. Are you… okay?”
“No,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “But I will be. So, what’s your hypothesis?”
The sudden shift in topic made me pause. “Hypothesis? Regarding what?”
“Regarding Eschatis. What do you think it is?”
“I don’t have a hypothesis yet,” I confessed. “I haven’t been there. And I’m not there to form hypotheses. The goal is to observe and collect data. I was under the assumption that a hypothesis should come after that.”
“I believe we’ll find that consciousness is a particle, one that can’t be seen in physical reality,” he mused. “Did you read about the Antediluvian Quadrants?”
“I did.”
“Do me a favor then, would you?”
“… That all depends.”
“Make sure to investigate those areas specifically,” he went on. “I’d like to know more.”
I smiled. “That, I can do.” Our conversation seemed to organically end on that note, and I rose to leave. “I’ll let you rest.”
Just as I was about to cross the threshold, he asked, “Did Adrial tell you of our plan to work around your intolerance?”
“He did. Can’t wait.”
Yahweh smirked. “Meet me in RQ4 after morning meal, then.”
I left Yahweh to his well-earned sleep, a new resolve stirring within. With his blessings, I was now determined to make my mark upon the Enigmus archives, once and for all.
3876b-444//~69.yy8rpm
Insipian Algo-54(encrypted)
Resonance Contributor(s):
1.Aela Dilusin__/_
The following threads have been archived under the ESCHATIS cluster, in attica’s databank holosphere. Vis-captures and other audiovisual recordings were included with the intent of educational purposes. With this evidence provided, the Court of Enigmus has classified Eschatis as the Metaverse, a complementary component of the Multiverse, and it is theorized that neither could exist without the other. Only one question remains, and it may never be answered:
Which came first?
PART ONE:
REALITY IS A LIE
“There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”
- Frederick Nietzsche
THE HOLE
THE REBIRTHING CAVE IS THE FIGURATIVE ENTRANCE into Eschatis. I am uncertain as to whether the scenery is the same for everyone who somehow ventures here, but this marks the second time I’ve stared down the same tunnel, and Zira’s interpretative accounts are similar. Why the entrance is a cavern, with a fire illuminating mysterious scripture, eludes me. Perhaps it is metaphorical. How a dimension could be metaphorical eludes me as well.
I take that back. The latter doesn’t elude me, but the implications are daunting and I choose to ignore them for now.
It is clear that I am supposed to enter the tunnel, but the whispers permeating from it make me temporarily lose my nerve. I inspect the scripture on the walls instead, thumbing a flask of Yahweh’s serum on my belt for comfort.
The scripture gives no warning of what lies beyond the cavern. It doesn’t seem to be a language at all, but crude, vertical lines placed in sequence. Some are grouped, others spaced. Certainly there is a reason it’s here; there is some importance to it, but I cannot determine what. I take a vis-capture and concede toward the tunnel mouth.
The darkness swallows me as soon as I take my first step inside. The atmosphere is heavier, the air is thicker and I have to expand my chest to take a proper breath. I look back toward the cavern in one last gaze of regret, but find that it is gone. There is nothing except a nebulous tunnel in each direction.
I am immediately unsettled. My headset warns me that my vitals have spiked. I don’t realize the whispers vanished until they return, surrounding me in a whirlwind. I cannot see anything, no matter which spectrum I shift to.
Something touches my ear.
I swat it away, trying to turn, but the tunnel has narrowed. My chest now feels like it is concave. No matter how deeply I try to breathe, there is only void. The whispers become a grinding drone, and my mind flounders down a sea of violent rapids, a cataract closing in.
I go over the edge.
There is a shift in my perception. It takes a moment for my body and mind to resync.
The scenery is confusing.
I am standing in the smoldering ruin of some kind of sanctuary. There is smoke in the air, and the stench of death is clinging to my clothes like a needy child. A sigil is etched into the wall, marred by soot and char. At the sight of it, familiarity swoops in.
Again, I am unsettled. There is no warning from my headset because I no longer have it. I am forced to rely on the vision from crude, mortal eyes as I take in my surroundings. It is not real, but a memory—one in which I return to whenever I need a reason to hate myself. A little piece of perdition, a memento of what fueled my desire for a different life.
The audio of the memory now kicks in. The other members of the Clergy shout coordinates to each other around the room as they pick off the remaining members of the enemy faction. There is a crescendo of dying screams and roaring fires from outside. We have torched the outpost, laid waste to the Revenants guarding it. I have led them here. They are my charge, under the orders of the Moratalis Church. Cleanse the area of dissenters. Cleanse the known world of the interlopers who have received the gifts of our Gods, but have used them for heretical purposes.
Technology, the highest mortal sin.
Revenants, those who have left the clergy to worship progress, threatening a second cataclysm on Melekonia.
In the moment, I believe all of this. I believe I am doing good, even as I brace against the perpetual twinge of wrongness in my gut. I have been raised to understand that those who do not follow the faith are no good to our world. I am a fool.
But I am also aware of what is happening, why it is happening, all thanks to Zira and Qaira’s warning of what the rebirthing cave inflicts on the voyager. I know that I must play the part, and relinquish myself to it. I don’t resist. I become merely an observer.
We have liquidated the outpost of everyone except the group before me. They are not Revenants, only wards, but the Church doesn’t see a difference. There are two men and three women, cowering against the wall beneath the Vortex sigil. They know they are dead. They don’t move, only cling to each other. I take notice of their faces—gaunt, smeared with soot and grime. Their frames are skeletal from poverty and starvation. Death will be a reprieve.
I cast down my eyes. The train of my gray robes were tattered and tinged brown with blood. I have killed hundreds of people, although never touched a single one. Today is no different.
I generate a thought. Just a harmless thought�
�of the foundation around the group cracking, losing integrity. From the ground around their feet, hairline fractures in the stone wall behind them snake toward the ceiling. I watch the sigil break apart, and then that section collapses, burying the group in stone and debris. Those who work with me say I have a flair for the theatric. I secretly hope the heretics’ deaths were immediate.
I am Aela Dilusin, an Ash Priestess for the Moratalis Church.
I am a murderess, a monster, and the kindest person you’ve ever met. I don’t yet realize that most people who do evil things are not fueled by their inherent nature, but instead by the belief that they are incapable of evil at all.
I believe I am saving the world. I don’t know that in just two years’ time I will meet Adrial, and none of this will matter any longer.
*
The sufferings are endless. I am dragged through each and every offense of my life, as if the cave is intent on breaking me. It almost wins. By the time I return, I am half-mad.
I see the exit of the tunnel up ahead, frothed with mist. My hands tremble as I pull myself through the impossibly-narrow passage, feeling its shards scrape my ribs as I am forced sideways. With one more thrust I am out, stumbling through the veil of mist in what is probably the clumsiest entrance in Enigmus history. That I am still capable of being so self-conscious is a good sign, at least.
The mist is cold, but brief. I land hard on my knees, but the fall is padded by meadow grass. I sink forward on all fours, waiting for my pulse to settle. The staccato slows, and I consult my headset for any coordinates and properties of the area. There are none. Attica cannot detect any air, any chemical compounds, any visible light spectrums. I might have thought it was defective, if not for the active database.
The grass under my hands is not grass. I am not breathing. I am not really here.
This reality is a lie.
Shellshocked, I get to my feet and smooth my uniform—hooded cloak, cuirass with the emblem of Enigmus and battlegown, all black. Always black. It serves a purpose beyond causing unease, though that doesn’t matter here. We are required to wear it anytime we venture outside of our home. This is how the Multiverse recognizes us.
There is a visible scrape on the cuirass, near my ribs. I am worried about this, as our armor is made durable enough to withstand heavy artillery. I don’t feel particularly wounded, and decide not to brave Yahweh’s serum for now.
That thought reminds me to check in with the others, and I take a vis-capture of my surroundings. STILL ALIVE—ONLY SLIGHTLY CRAZY is submitted as a caption. I hope someone appreciates my attempt at humor.
I am just a way’s off of a path through a forest that, according to attica, has no physical properties whatsoever. The trees are cosmic in size, their trunks alone could house our council room. The canopies seem miles away, touching the stars that sweep past at an alarming rate. I am mystified, and spend an embarrassing amount of time gawking at the scenery.
Flecks of yellow-green light flit in and out of existence around me, like clouds of fireflies. It reminds me of Qaira’s demonstration of a neutrino shower once, when he returned from a contract that required him to restabilize a host star. It is beautiful and frightening. The unknown is frightening, but the fear is … welcome. This is what scholars live for, after all.
I am, however, confused about the isolation. I was under the impression Laith and her ilk were expecting me. I look back, finding a sprawling fog. I have no other choice but to gingerly move forward on the path, wading through the sparkly flecks.
It is not long until I hear the faint sound of chimes. It has a soothing quality, and the caution in my gait somewhat relents. The trees begin to shorten along the way. There are shiny baubles hanging from their branches, replacing leaves. The forest then opens into a clearing, a half-constructed cottage with a fabric-woven canopy for a roof rests at the center. There is a fire in front of the cottage, a pot resting over a spit above the flames. A little way from the fire is a gate, framed by two pillars. I’ve read enough of Zira’s recants to know that this is a waystation.
An ashen-robed figure shuffles out of the cottage, lifting back their hood. They watch me approach with what I perceive as confusion. I don’t recognize the patron race of this wayfarer, nor can I determine a gender from looks alone. Attica cannot find a match to their physical characteristics in our databank. Either this person is very, very ancient and their race no longer exists in the Multiverse, or they hail from somewhere we’ve never been. Both theories are currently plausible.
“Hail, traveler,” calls the wayfarer, its voice light and airy, yet androgynous still. “Come, sit by the hearth and have some tea. You will need it for your journey ahead.”
“I am Aela Dilusin,” I say once we are standing in front of each other. “A Scholar with the Court of Enigmus. I am here to see Laith. She is expecting me.”
The wayfarer studies me, their eyes scanning my own with irises formed of prisms. They are short-statured, no ears, no hair, and there are two mysterious holes where the bridge of their nose begins. “You are here to see the sorcerer,” they repeat. “I was not informed.” They gesture to their hearth once more. “You need to drink the tea. I will make a train that will lead you to her.”
I don’t quite catch all of that, but am too polite to question their customs. Instead I sit on the uncomfortable log in front of the fire as the wayfarer ladles me a bowl of steaming liquid. Once it is handed to me, I find their definition of tea to be quite loose. It looks a bit like swamp water.
I don’t want to drink this, but know I must. I take a tiny sip, worried it will scald my mouth. It doesn’t, nor does it taste as bad as it looks. I hide my relief.
The wayfarer goes about their business, stirring the pot and then tinkering with things inside the cottage. There are shelves with numerous jars inside their dwelling.
There is also someone else, though I cannot make out any details. Either they are very, very short, or they are crouching in the corner, watching me. I don’t know how I know they are watching me, as I cannot see their face, but I know just the same. Uneasy, I force my attention back to the flames while I finish my drink.
The wayfarer returns to the hearth with a knife and sack, sitting across from me. They dump the sack out, spilling two baubles and a bundle of sticks at their feet. I think back to the decorations on the trees. I have an insatiable urge to ask what they are, but also don’t want to pry— until Laith gives me her blessing, of course. I place the empty bowl on the log bench beside me.
“Can you see them yet?” asks the wayfarer, unspooling shiny twine.
“Them?” I ask.
“Another minute, then,” is all they say, crossing two sticks together, bundling them with twine.
I open my mouth to respond, but then the atmosphere shifts. It comes on as a tingle at the base of my spine, surging upward, spanning across the back of my head. Floating, luminescent orbs materialize around us, weaving in and out of our strange (un)reality. The meadow and cottage scenery becomes translucent, opaque—;
And then I see them.
The meadow rests on a sublayer of a desolate sprawl: night sky, hardpan of athanasian shards. Figures move in and out of sight. People. I count at least a dozen. Some merely stand there, looking out at nothing; others appear to be speaking to no one; some even walk by as if we’re not sitting here at all.
Alarmed, I rise from the log and peer around us. I cannot resist, and begin vis-capturing everything.
The wayfarer finds this amusing. They emit a sound that I think is a laugh. “You are ready.”
“Who are they?” I demand.
“No one,” said the wayfarer. “Impressions left from those who have made pilgrimage here.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I think about it for a few seconds. “Impressions… as in, memories?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Ghosts?”
“Ghosts are dead,” says the wayfarer. “There may be a few of those here, but the s
ubconscious favors the living.” Before I can ask any more, the smoke from the hearth thins, weaving into a phosphorescent trail, leading out into the sprawl. I watch it, feeling my stomach clench.
“The train will lead you to the Sorceress,” they say. “Don’t stray from it, or you might never find your way back.”
I hesitate, my courage wavering. I don’t want to venture out alone, but mask my fear. “How far away is she?”
The wayfarer looks at me as if they don’t understand my question.
I try again. “How long will it take me to reach her?”
“Distance and time are not dimensions here,” says the wayfarer. “You will simply reach her when you do. The length of the journey is completely up to you.”
I don’t like that answer at all, but nod politely. With that, the wayfarer returns to their decorations, and I take my first steps into the great unknown.
GHOSTS
“The subconscious favors the living.”
I THINK HARD ABOUT THE WAYFARER’S STATEMENT as I walk alongside the illuminated line of smoke, through sheer nothingness.
Even the transparency of the meadow is gone. All that is left are athanasian ground and star-speckled sky. No wind, no sound. I feel as if I have been walking for a long while, but probably not.
I send a ping to Sort, inquiring about the time lapse since my last update. I don’t hold my breath on getting a prompt response, as Qaira is manning Sort and he tends to wander away from his post on a regular basis. I entertain the idea of using the direct line, but that would have everyone listening in. I don’t want to seem worried. I want the Court to think nothing of my mission, except that it’s going smoothly. I know my pride will be my undoing here, but alas.
Covenants: Quantum Dream (Hymn of the Multiverse Book 11) Page 2