A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

  She didn’t want to remove her hands, but she needed to. All of her children needed her. She needed all of them. Her fingertips came away from their cheeks gently and their eyes opened. Bright white and completely devoid of any other colour or imperfection, she dreamily looked into them as she had done when she saw the white gifts left by bleach. Maybe I really do love them she thought. It was nice not having to pretend. The next eight of her children had developed into the same Orc type shapes, excellent specimens themselves and purring as she came to them, still here and not here. Corporeal and incorporeal. She admired the women who had sprouted from long, strong, elegant legs of different colours, surprised at the variety of Detka that stood awaiting her approval. Detka, where had that name come from? It felt right in her head, her Detka. Her babies. Her family. She also delighted in most of them looking like her. I always wanted daughters she mused as she went cheek to cheek, caressing and purring her words of love to them. Eight sets of bright white eyes opened, not quite as brilliant as Adam and Eve’s, but she smiled with delight at how well she had chosen the seeds. She thanked the book for guiding her hand in that moment of selection and for all the years it had been her friend. She’d been filled with love and joy whilst she went from child to child and her feelings only grew as she added the book into her thoughts.

  Finally, she reached the last two. The two unsure and conflicted seeds that almost didn’t take. Ten successful rootings would have been enough, yet she thinks she may favour these last two Detka over the rest. She would never voice these feelings of course. She loved all her children equally, but these two, they were special. She got down onto her haunches in one fluid movement, making sure she was at eye level when their eyes finally opened. Unlike all of the other Detka, one of them had grown from a severed head, and the other from an untouched torso. Even though all of them had come from female parts, she couldn’t control the rooting process and so, a few ended up looking more masculine than others. These two however, hadn’t formed a shape that resembled any of the Lucidfolk, or a Naïve for that matter. Sitting on their own haunches, two huge, bulking shapes had grown, looking like great silverback gorillas. Kane and Abel sprang to mind, names coming as easily as the others. Kane’s human head had distorted beyond recognition, bits of bone creating dents and rivets in the face, clumps of hair sprouting in strange places. His jaw had distended, looking gruesome and wicked, sharp teeth protruding and cutting fresh gouges into his face every time it moved. Abel’s torso had been through a similar transformation. Bulging in unexpected places, rock hard and contorted with malformed bones. He bled openly from parts of his chest as his ribs formed and reformed. She brushed her fingertips against the wounds, wanting to show them her love and careful not to hurt. The caring touch of a mother.

  When both sets of their eyes opened they were bright white too, like Adam and Eve’s but with blemishes. Irregularities that made them unique from each other and the rest of the Detka. She smiled at them both, glad she’d made the journey south to their level and making sure they saw her. She placed her hands on their cheeks, intensifying her smile as much as she could. Pouring her thoughts, dreams and love into it with all her strength. Two sets of immeasurably large shoulders moved in unison, approving of the attention, unaware they had brothers and sisters a few feet away. In that moment, the three of them felt connected, bound to each other with meaning and reason. Bound together by a unique love she didn’t know she had inside her. She loved all of her Detka equally and uniquely.

  “It’s nearly time.” She cast her eyes across her new family, more and more caring emotions flooding through her. “They will all come to love us soon enough. As we love each other.” She thought about the future where she and Christophe ruled the two worlds as saviours. As deliverers from a chaos and turmoil. Loved by her subjects and adored by her family. Thinking about when it would come to pass and the love she would feel, terrible memories threatened to paralyse her and let the darkness win. The day she was rejected flashed through her mind, dragging emotions she wanted to stay buried with it. The day she found out what her Dyad’s true intentions for her were. What he said. How he said it. How un-loved and disposable she was made to feel. She’d never felt so alone and betrayed as she had in that moment, resolving to never be in the position again. You will see how strong I am. I am more than enough.

  Christophe watched all of this from the door, not wanting to disrupt the ceremony. Twelve sets of eyes opened. Twelve lives were born. Twelve harrowing beings bound themselves to her and her dark purpose. He realised in that instance, that she was trying to find meaning. She was trying to find acceptance and belonging. She was lonely. All this talk of destruction was her way of protecting herself, giving reason to her actions. The intent to unsettle and cause chaos was a rouse. She wants to be noticed. She wants to be seen. She wants to be loved.

  I’m not enough for her he thought, the awful sentiment rattling around in his head dangerously. That truth of the realisation hung about his neck with a pulling, relentless weight. Inevitable, it dragged him down, his spirit and eyes sinking with it. He wanted to look up. He wanted to be enough for her, but it was too late for them. Their time had been, or never had been, he couldn’t tell. Just the illusion of a content existence had been his fuel and he gave up on the reality of it happening. Then she was there, so close he could smell the sweetness in her hair. Honeyed aromas wafted around him and lifted his head, buoyant at her presence. From the door he couldn’t see how she was looking at the purple concoctions, yet he felt her level some measure of the way she felt about them, onto him. The truth was drowning him, but her small gestures and that damned smile was his life jacket. His hope.

  Her hands worked around his waist and she pulled herself in close against his chest. She breathed in time with him and listened to each beat of his heart, it quickening at her being so near to him. Her own did the same, that feeling of belonging apparent whenever she saw him. Her Detka and him, providing the love she’d always desired, but was it enough? Keeping her ear to him, she looked out past his arm towards the city, bathing in the moment, knowing they had no time left. I’m scared for what’s next she admitted. I’m scared for you. The words never found their way to his ears though, they were too hard to give life to. Breathing in the smell of her, Christophe pulled her in a little closer and rested his chin on her head. You’re safe here. You’ve nothing to fear when you’re with me. The words never made it out of his mind, too hard to admit out loud.

  Their embrace was broken by a dreadful scream from the steel room. Part beast, part man, part despair and death echoed around them. Christophe felt the lifejacket slip from his shoulders, Rosalind felt her fear disappearing. They hurried around the corner to see a wriggling, mutating mass of nightmares, fitting and writhing on the floor where the kind stranger had once stood. Shifting and phasing in and out of existence, it screamed again. He wasn’t Naïve anymore, the last vestiges of that form gone. He wasn’t made into Lucidfolk either, the magiks making him into something new. Something entirely different. He was formless and malignant, a festering creature of vileness. He was a being of destruction and cruelty. It, was an Archfiend.

  “What have you done, Äsheenie?” He muttered, aghast.

  “I made him for Tor.” She whispered, panting and holding onto a wall to keep from fainting. Christophe hadn’t realised the toll these thirteen children were taking on her. All of the colour had drained from her as he looked over at the it, on the floor. The Archfiend had used up the last of her to birth itself into this world, the scream its first cry in this world. Christophe grabbed onto the parts of Rosalind that weren’t appearing and disappearing, remembering how the rain had passed through her so easily in the alley.

  “Why?” He whispered to her, cradling her in his arms.

  “They’ll come for me. Eve and Tor. We want to make sure he had someone to play with whilst we deal with her.” She smiled weakly, Christophe not sure if her being this trivial was on purpose or a result of her exha
ustion. Exasperated, he looked from her to the travesty that shuddered about on the floor, muttering words in an alien tongue.

  “He is nearly ready. Take us to her.” A weak hand lifted towards the woman strapped into the dentist chair whose blank eyes stared into nothingness, her breathing slow and laboured. There wasn’t much of her left now, physically or mentally. Her mind and body were trapped between life and the endless sleep, not knowing which was better. Half carrying, half guiding, Christophe helped Rosalind to the chair whilst struggling to hold himself, and her, together. Parts of her had become fluid again, her body slipping in and out of existence as she fell and stumbled through Christophe’s arms on their way to the chair. When they got there, Rosalind stroked the woman’s hair lovingly and turned her head, so she could talk to her face to face.

  “Thank you.” She said earnestly, fingers caressing the golden, soft hair. For a moment, Christophe thought he saw recognition in the watery eyes of Rosalind’s victim, feeling sorry for the torturous state she’d been kept in. Her trance seemed to be broken by their intimate moment, her consciousness dragged from the deepest recesses of her mind to the present. He felt a sickness pull at his stomach as he recognised what was really there though. It wasn’t recognition, it was fear.

  “Your sacrifice has made all of this possible and it’s nearly over. We will remember you.” Christophe saw the changes in Rosalind’s face, the ones that revealed her inner daemon. The changes that showed her teeth and her hunger. The blackness and endless hatred. Fingers gripped the golden, soft hair and for a moment, Christophe saw relief in the watery eyes.

  “We, will remember you.” Three voices said in unison. The relief was a gift, before dreadful savagery tore into the woman’s face. A gaping, daemonic purpose scattered blood across the polished steel. Red reminders that he couldn’t stop her from falling down the mountain to where the sane was insane, and the road back unclimbable.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - DEBT

  “What do you mean, freedom, or transcendence?” I’m standing as tall as possible, feeling like I’d been cheated and incredulous that there’s more I have to do to get out of this cursed place.

  “The Våpen never told you about the third room.” I’m not sure if Djoonga was asking a question or stating a fact, but he went on regardless.

  “Other, candidates, before you were not strong enough to face the final room, so they were set free.” I sense sadness and regret in his voice, the first real emotions I’ve gotten from him.

  “What happened to them?” Concern was in my voice, feeling like I didn't really want the answer.

  “They lost their minds.” There’s a finality in his tone, but I decide to press him, some of the respect and admiration I felt earlier having gone.

  “You let them leave, knowing that would happen?” Following through with describing the ramifications of letting ticking time bombs free into the world seemed pointless. The ancient door is more than aware of his actions and their consequences, but I want to hear it from him.

  “This process that The Protectorate puts them through is dangerous and wrong. It breaks with the natural order. Patience is just as important as practice, true insight and power the reward for commitment and focus.” The fatherly and all-knowing voice changes as we carry on. There’s a deep conflict he’s battling that surfaces in how he speaks. Not all are wise with age, their own struggles shaping who they become.

  “How long are they stable for?” I manage, wanting to know my own fate and not wanting to know it.

  “Eleven years.”

  That’s weirdly precise I thought, but I have no desire to press the why behind the time. “Why did you let them leave?”

  “Most die in the first two rooms. Any that make it through would not be able to face the third room and I could not have more death on my ledger.” That was a callous way of looking at it. A cheque book of blood and debt he wants to minimise for his own sensibilities. Sensing, and seeing my distaste, Djoonga began listing names before I interrupt him with hand gestures and some pathetic attempt at chastising him.

  “I remember all of them young one. Do not judge me for my actions, the fate of us all hung in the balance.” His cold, hard calculations frustrate me, and I can feel myself reacting.

  “You mean you did all this for me?” Anger began bubbling up inside me, my fire blazing with incredulity at this inanimate object trying to pass his blood debt on to me. I have a large enough ledger of my own and I’m not willing to accept his excuses. “Don’t you dare-”

  “Calm, Weyaal. Those burdens are mine to bear, and I feel it will not be long before I must pay the price.” My fire calmed, the blaze returning to a low rumbling heat.

  “I have eleven years until I go mad?” Not so bad I guess. That’d be my price for the debt I owe I suppose. A debt I can’t keep running from.

  “I do not know.”

  “For someone who seems to know so much, and foresaw themselves being needed by me all those years ago – how can you not know?”

  “You progressed through the rooms much quicker than anyone else. On the outside, only a few hours have passed, and they wouldn’t expect you to be done for a few days. I do not know if your speed will accelerate your symptoms or slow them down. You are different to the others, Weyaal and cannot be judged with the same measures.” Two sets of shoulders drop, Tchook throwing a sad noise into the room.

  “What happens in the third room?” Freedom is tempting, but maybe working through another challenge would arm me against the coming madness, whatever that may be.

  “So far, you have overcome your feral instincts, demonstrating mastery of the mind and body. Now you must gain mastery of the soul.”

  That’s vague at best. “You don’t know that either, do you?”

  I sense a shake of an imaginary door head. “It is not my journey to take.”

  “You think I should do it, don’t you?”

  “You are a chosen, Tor. One whose path is different to all those before you and the choice has always been yours.” Djoonga paused, lost in his own predictions and forecasts of the future. “Perhaps, mastery of the three disciplines, even using these unnatural rooms, will be enough to prevent what is coming.”

  I don’t like that this all-knowing magikal object doesn’t have the answers and won’t tell me what’s coming. It seems like a gamble to take this last test, one that could kill me or make me stronger for some final conflict I know nothing about. Then again, I’ve rolled the dice before and magik is a mysterious force that does and doesn’t have all the answers. I calculate and calculate, but get nowhere, deciding that it’s better to be over-prepared.

  “No one has gone into this room before then? And you don’t know what happens in there?”

  “I used to help others like you pass through junctures in their training, always seeing what they went through when mastering their minds and bodies. But the soul journey was always their own to take. It is the same here.” I look at the door deeply, seeing every figure on the carved scene for the first time. I was trying to find the answer in their plight, trying to see what I should do. They aren’t going through this though. You’re staring at a door. You need to look inside. Or, the black goo to your side.

  “What do you think?” Shoulders bristled, but the non-head didn’t turn to me.

  “Prrt, shurleet.” Tchook rumbled seriously.

  “Yeah, I think we should do it too.” Knowing I have a partner at my side I feel invincible. I loved him like a brother and those feelings of connection fuel my fire. Those feelings of connection blossom when I think about a second half to my being. About how Eve had been my second half. More accurately, she was my first half and I imagined her standing next to me now.

  “Let’s go.” I feel a tearing in reality and am sucked downwards into another room. Just like the beam room, I’m surrounded by soil and bones. Ghostly images of the past creeping out of blackness to torture a newcomer. It feels like they’re all talking to me. Like I’m trapped in so
me kind of mass grave where the occupants are still alive, wriggling and crying. Clawing and scraping with words and hands. Having landed comfortably, I look to my side from my crouched position, one knee placed on the slate flooring. Tchook’s not there. I’m alone.

  I expect fear, but instead a calmness descends on me. Standing up, the wriggling and cries get louder. The clawing and scraping are so close I think it’s happening to my body. I partition these imaginations away from the present me, trying to focus on the task at hand, but in doing so the noises and feelings amplify. Then I see it. The bones are coming to life, falling, crawling and unnaturally clicking together into mockeries of life. The back wall falls away to reveal an overwhelming number of part alive creatures of every kind. All rotting with parts of them missing, an incalculable number of soulless eyes fix on me. Elves of every size start shambling towards me. Dwarves with terrible, evil weapons limp on. Orcs reverting to their basal instincts hobble forward, teeth bared, claws extended. Even Naïve’s advance, distended jaws and sunken flesh hungry for mine. I take in the sight, glancing across the innumerable mass of Lucids and Naïves alike, drudging their way towards me. I hear shuffling noises from behind me and turn to see gross caricatures of skeletons nearly upon me. Bones are twisted and joined in strange places adding to the horror of how the things move. Spikes and malformed, malignant growths protrude from everywhere, threatening to hurt me. To kill me.

  I dig my feet into the ground, taking a strong attacking stance and prepare myself for the onslaught. My onslaught. Tingling. Bliss. Strength and purpose. My fur’s shimmering a little brighter than before and I smile. Drifting into the in between, finding my vision and balancing all I was on a knife edge, I attack. Even experiencing the force of nature that I now am, I can almost see myself from above. I move with grace and death, flicking from foe to foe and dealing unblockable blows. Striking from every angle I whirl through the undead, easily evading their attempts to grab me and giving them over to the endless sleep for good. Each time I connect with them, a small light blinks from where I struck them, a beacon of light in the darkness of the underworld. Shining and shimmering as I go, I avoid rotting bites, hungry swipes and feverish grabbing. For a long time, nothing touches me. Shifting between dead faces I know and don’t know, I put them all down. One-by-one, or hitting many at once, each dead thing is laid to rest. Eye balls explode, limbs are stolen, heads and brains are crushed to mulch as limp bodies fall to my peaceful wrath. I hadn’t quite known the power within me until I was tested like this. Even from before I lost Eve I’d never been this good. Congratulations of my skill echo through my mind, comments on my martial skill are whispered in corners and celebrated in the training square. Looking at the wasteland I’d created and the stillness that I’d forged through wilful might, the tingling and bliss returns. Taking my normal shape, I close my hands in prayer and bow to the fallen. They used to be mothers, daughters, fathers and sons. Friends and enemies who all had been alive once, deserved my respect.