A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

  “Welcome Torbjorn. You have been out in the cold for far too long.” The voice was laced with magik and wisdom.

  “Hello, Djoonga.” I echo back within my head.

  “We were not supposed to meet under these conditions, Weyaal. Time and circumstances are fickle in the eyes of fate.” The voice is dreamy and calming, filling me with knowing and familiarity. I don’t know why I was afraid earlier.

  “We were meant to meet?” I ask, confused and not really understanding what the door was saying.

  “In another life, yes. A life where your ancestors wouldn’t have been so appalled by the worlds actions these last few centuries.” Some images flash with the voices words.

  “My ancestors?”

  “Yes, but it is not my place to act as historian in your story I am afraid. I am but a gateway to your true self. A vehicle to explore your essence and become who you were meant to be. Are you ready?”

  I don’t know how Djoonga knows I say I am, but before I know it, the door’s slowly opening. I want to stay here for a while and explore the door’s statements, discussing them and figuring out what he means. It’s too quick for me to walk away from those clues to my past but I’m helpless, pushed on by someone else’s will. When I look into the abyss behind the wood, I see nothing. Furrowing my brow with confusion and frustration I’m imitating a small creature’s dissatisfaction with the turn of events unfolding in front of it.

  “What do I do? There’s nothing there.” My voice is still creaking and alien.

  “You know my other name do you not, Weyaal?”

  “The Pilgrim Door.” I say mechanically, unsure where that fact comes from.

  “Then walk through me. All will be revealed.”

  I do as I’m asked, not for a moment thinking it’s strange to walk straight into a black hole after talking to a magik door. I just obey the parental voice, crossing the threshold and immediately being sucked into an unknown space. Suspended in mid-air I can move my limbs, but it’s like I’m encased in a thick syrup. Things are slow, hard, and I know I’m not meant to force my way through what’s next. I enjoy the lack of pain immensely, deciding to succumb to the weightlessness and closing my eyes. When my lids meet, fresh pain strikes, my mind exploding with visions. At first, I think I’m going to drown in the memories. Glimpses of my past deeds surround me like a suffocating blanket, swaddling me so I can’t escape. Crushing me from every direction and threatening to take my life I struggle and thrash against it, making it worse. Realising this must be part of what Djoonga must show me I commit to riding it out and after a while, the memories fade. I can breathe again, and the visions begin moving into a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours, complex feelings and intense light. Whispered nonsense drifts in and out of my mind, penetrating my being without restraint and I let it all slide past and through me. I don’t try to hold onto any of it, I just let it all happen.

  Imaginary shapes spring out of me, forming avalanches of discord into the distance. What I’m seeing, and feeling, is overwhelming. Even though I’d decided to experience it all, in whatever way it comes to me, I’m not prepared for the barrage. A solitary tear rolls down my cheek then comes away from my face without me noticing. It drifts a few inches in front of my eyes and I look deep into it, the fear receding with its bizarre shifting in the blackness. I realise what the door’s doing. It’s exploring me, allowing me to experience my life from the outside. The shapes start to roll back from the distance as I understand, but as they come closer, things move in slow motion, revealing what the shapes are. What had been unrecognisable before were now objects I recognise from my past. The first things I see are weapons of every kind, used for killing and extinguishing lives. Things that I had used to extinguish lives. A deep shame penetrates me with the experiences of using those cursed things when personal effects shrouded in sorrow and misery come into focus. They carry so much anger and pain, bringing with them memories that evoke the same emotions.

  I want this to end and as this thought glances into existence the shapes change, and I know I can endure. I have to endure. Some of the weapons come back, but the associated memories show me a different purpose. Saving the lives of those who couldn’t protect themselves. Heat begins to gather at my centre as flowers and petals coalesce to swamp over me. Tulips of every shade, shape and size remind me of her and the time we spent together. More objects follow, demonstrating acts of kindness and joy. Food we gave to homeless and abandoned children, clothes given to the needy. I begin to comprehend what Djoonga’s showing me, and as it dawns, that’s when I see them. A pair of jade earrings shatter all the other items out of sight, leaving me alone with them and an all-consuming love.

  I slowly reach out to touch them, partially remembering their importance when shocking and deadly flashbacks swallow me instead, taking away the hope that’d been kindled. Cursed times and acts I committed mixed with destructive behaviours I knew intimately, and hated. I wanted them all to be uncontrollable, things I did without conscious thought. The truth however, was that I made the choices. Some because they felt right at the time, some due to circumstances out of my control, but mostly, because I didn’t know any better.

  The message I needed to hear was becoming more and more apparent with every second as I watch happier times play out in front of me as well. The tightness in my chest begins to slide away, bit by bit. Like a river carving its own path through mountains, the resistant parts to who I was, began to fall way and pass with the water of my being. I visualise this happening as quiet penetrates the void. Quiet of the body. Quiet of the mind. Quiet of the soul. Then the symbol from the ceiling in the room appears in front of me. The exact same triangle and line that glows a deep and rich orange, sun-like. One of three I know. Three stages and three symbols. My body begins to descend slowly, back towards the door as Djoonga’s voice coos.

  “Things are not as simple as you thought are they, Weyaal?” His tone adds to the quiet, soothing and pacifying.

  “No.” I replied stoically.

  “Tell me what you have learned”

  “We’re mosaics. Collections of experiences. Each one adding to the complicated mix that makes up a person. We’re neither evil or good. Black or white. We’re always in the in between space. Acting in ways that can push us one way or the other but never too far gone or lost…” I trail off with the weight of my realisations.

  “Continue young one.” Djoonga encouraged.

  “I thought what I am, made me evil. What I can do was meant to be used to harm and damage. So, I turned away from it. Ignored it. Hoped it would disappear. But now I know I must embrace it. It’s part of who I am.”

  “Your path has been… complicated, Weyaal and I am afraid it will only continue to be. Much rests on your shoulders and I hope you can undo what has been done to the worlds.”

  “Why me, Djoonga?”

  “The Chosen appear to us in times of need, Torbjorn.” The door replied affectionately. “When darkness begins to take hold, they are born to defend against the enemies of light. We have been waiting a long time for you.” Still calm and soothing he carried on. “Your fight has been delayed, the enemies of light growing strong in your absence. It will be hard.” Was he, even, a he?

  I pause as hundreds of questions barrel through my mind, an avalanche of dangerous thinking flooding my head. I open my mouth to ask them. Do I need to use my mouth? Have we been in my mind this whole time? The questions fade, and I can’t keep my concentration, a dreadful tiredness taking hold of me. The avalanche passes. Things melt. I drift into the deepest sleep of my life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE - MYSTERIOUS HAPPENINGS

  Gerard watched the screen with focused intent, bending his entire self to what he was seeing. The purple alarm lights had faded, leaving the green threads of light attached to each Orc the only light to illuminate the room. An eeriness crept into the space and turned everyone into statues. Solitary figures staring at something and nothing. Immobile and lonely. The screens behind and around
Parod’s two primaries kept showing their endless, fluctuating screens with relentless uniformity. Were Gerard able to follow the events on them, they’d reveal more secrets that The Protectorate were hiding, but he knew he needed to remain patient and driven for now. Still levelling his eyes at the screen, he saw the poisoned man was on the move.

  He was markedly impressed with his captor’s achievements, betraying an inner strength none of them had expected. After the botched initiation where they’d lost an entire tac-team, they’d decided that recruiting the man wouldn’t work. The cold, hard and calculating nature of The Protectorate prevailed, favouring an ending of the operation early. Gerard knew how the report would read and knew his superiors wouldn’t prefer a drawn-out process that ultimately, may not even work due to the creature’s instability and unpredictable nature. Especially after failing at stage one. Some admiration swelled up inside him, thinking how he’d never seen such ferocity from a Nahgwal before. His organisation had no trouble disposing of men and women for lesser crimes in the past, so the decision was made that the man-beast in the room was too dangerous and needed to be terminated. Whilst Tor slept, caked in terrible detritus from the fight, they administered a deadly poison, claiming they were doing both worlds a favour by ridding them of this thing. This monster.

  When the bloodied and bruised figure reached the med kit, Gerard couldn’t believe what he was watching. Why was he not dead? He thought angrily. Leaning closer to the screen in hope of finding out where the man's strength came from, he heard the man whisper a phrase to himself. Recognition whistled through his mind, so he cast his eye back over the file, swiping and manipulating to find the man’s military records. Nothing. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Why did he know this phrase if he was never in the military? He quickly dismissed it as some kind of movie trope that he must have seen, but just in case, he asked Parod to show him the footage from earlier.

  He stepped closer to the screen, hands clasped behind his back and re-focusing. Watching with an extremely critical eye, Gerard came to realise that the dead-man-walking had undoubtedly received military training in the past. The way he moved, even as injured as he was, indicated discipline and efficiency. Long hours of repetitive movements on the training ground were mirrored in his actions. The judicial way he used the med kit furthered Gerard’s suspicions as he connected the dots, concluding a background in the armed forces would undoubtedly explain what he was seeing. But why not include any of this in his record? ‘They must have deleted his background from the files, Gerard.’ He said to himself internally. ‘You’re jumping.’ He thought. You can pick up most of this from movies, and why would The Protectorate not report military service in the man’s file? This would be a key piece of intel in order for them to handle the subject correctly. As disposable as all employees were, The Protectorate would still opt to reduce losses if possible out of efficiency, rather than loyalty or morality. Something was eating away at him though. Something smelled off. “Parod?”

  “Gerard?” The Orc responded passively, keeping two watchful eyes on all his screens.

  “Show me what happened when he woke up. The first time.” Gerard said seriously.

  “By your will.”

  Gerard knew what he was asking to see so he prepared himself, apprehensive at reliving some of his darker moments in order to find answers. He’d seen hundreds of people die. Some by his hand, some by his order, most by others. He was used to death and destruction, having been its cause and witnessing over the years. He’d seen the entire spectrum too. Chaotic, ordered. Sinful, religious. Planned, innocent. Strategic, defensive. Lustful, joyful. Covering up Lucid mistakes was his job, so remembering past cases; the why’s, the motives, the methods and the intent, he saw a pattern in the Nahgwal’s rage. The footage showed their subject systematically ending each person's life with purpose and efficiency. Objectively, each one of them was killed or maimed as quickly and efficiently as possible, the most dangerous of them being dispatched first. When a killing blow couldn’t be made, the creature had deliberately done enough to reduce the immediate threat before moving on to the next target and returning later to finish the job. The tac teams he’d worked with and trained, could deal with unfocused attacks, launched in the heat of the moment, with relative ease. Watching those scenes again though, Gerard knew without doubt that his prisoner was more than he seemed and the obvious military training he’d received caught his team off-guard. Gerard felt something different as he watched the events unfold, it almost seeming unreal because the screen protected him. He knew he would meet a catalyst that would change his path at some point. A catalyst The Hammer talked of and maybe this was him. The intrigue of it all pulled at him and he could feel himself smiling.

  “Haverforth.” He said suddenly. The little man was as white as new fallen snow. What he saw was clearly disturbing him, shaking his very being and testing his constitution.

  “Yes sir?” Haverforth managed, a slight cringe marking his features.

  “Give us the room will you, please? And fetch us some refreshments. All this mystery is making me thirsty.” Gerard tried to keep his tone casual and carefree so as not to betray his inner feelings.

  Haverforth didn’t say a word. He looked glad to be given a job and an excuse to be out of that room. Scurrying to the door he almost tripped on his own feet, grunting with embarrassment and trying to mask the stumble. Gerard was proud of him though, watching the man gather himself. There was something about him that he liked, feeling that there was a hidden strength in him others had missed. He’d seen glimpses of it more than once and maybe he was waiting for his own catalyst. Perhaps that’s why they were partially drawn to each other. The short man brushed down his clothes, wiped his brow and took a deep breath before grasping the door handle and leaving the room.

  “Fortune.” Gerard said commandingly, but with care, like a parent talking to their child. “Our subject here has an incomplete file. I need you to quietly investigate why this is.” He handed the file to the tall man, but before letting go he repeated the word, ‘quietly’, with a serious look in his eyes. Fortune nodded knowingly and silently left the room, understanding the contrast in demeanour of his master compared to a few seconds ago. It meant they were most likely acting against the interests of their employer.

  “And then there were four.” Gerard said cheerily. “You saw it this time didn’t you Parod?” Serious tones returning to his voice.

  “Yes, Gerard. Order in the chaos. Hidden purpose. What wasn’t there, now is. This man carries protection from my eye.” Parod betrayed no emotion in how he delivered this, Gerard knowing he was frustrated at being tricked.

  “Strange that you didn’t notice it earlier my friend.” Gerard remarked before mocking the Orc and smiling wide. “Maybe you are getting old.” There was a friendly silence after the dig, but Gerard continued. “You haven’t reported this up yet, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. As you said, the man carries protection from your eye so when questioned, you have an excuse.”

  “The Nameless will find out eventually.” Parod said passively.

  The Nameless, Gerard scoffed in his head. He hated and admired the creatures who were at the head of their global operation. His eyes glazed over as he reflected on the last time he was in the presence of a Tarkkailija. He’d been summoned by this particular Ja to debrief after a nasty and complicated mission that nearly claimed his life. Shaken from what he’d just been through and only just getting back to base, he walked to the meeting place, puzzling over why he had to do this in person and with a Nameless no less. The chain of command was obvious, and he disliked having to go against the grain, unless it was of his own volition of course. The way his commanding officer at the time pulled him aside, expressing the urgency of the matter was also confusing and only added to the sinking feeling he had in his stomach.

  “It’s The Hammer.” She said in hushed tones, looking as if she’d seen the dead come to
life in front of her. Gerard paused to collect his thoughts and say something reassuring but he only managed a nod before gently gripping Artheria’s shoulder and brushing past her towards the summoning room.

  “Don’t give it anything they can hang us with, Silver.” She called after him as he passed around the corner. He needed that and let out a chuckle. Of course not, Arty. It’s only the second in command of The Nameless. Just a near-immortal being with powers I can’t begin to understand, or want to understand for that matter. He smiled to himself about the nickname Arty used too. Not many could get away with calling him that, but they’d been through too much for her not to be given that luxury. In the right circles, it came with a certain amount of respect and affection. In others. Fear.

  He casually made his way to the meeting, thinking about his story and what happened in Delrentia. His report. His actions. Replaying each moment over and over in his head, mentally preparing for the meeting with The Hammer. Stories about The Nine Tarkkailija were plentiful and Gerard couldn’t keep the ones about his interrogator at bay. When The Nameless originally appeared, they were exactly that. Nameless. No one knew who, or what, they truly were. Where they came from. How they came to be. All they knew, was that they were here to save them, and they were thankful for their arrival. A nameless force come to rescue the Lucidfolk and the Naïves from The Reapers. Lead, by The Hammer.

  Not once, since their mysterious appearance had any one of The Nine said their own name or told the Lucids how to address them. So, nicknames were given life, to help lesser beings distinguish between them. From what the Lucids could tell, The Nameless didn’t need to talk to each other, sharing thoughts and exchanging information without the need for conventional communication, and therefore, having no need for names or identity. Some thought they were magikal warriors manifested by the world itself, to protect it. Like a biological response to a virus. Some thought they were ancient wytches and wyzards, long dormant and forgotten, but resurfacing in times of need like the chosen. The truth was, no one knew anything and that scared Gerard. In the beginning, all that seemed to satisfy and be enough for people, was that they came. They saved both worlds and we were grateful. We were so blindly grateful in fact, that we let them establish The Protectorate to run the new world order without challenge. They claimed they were safeguarding everyone’s future and protecting the fine balance between all peoples, but Gerard felt there was something more sinister at play.