Greetings, readers. This is a story that I wrote as a Christmas present for my family; at least, that's what it started out as. I have decided to share this story with you. It's a story about... well, the best dream that I never had. What more can I say? I wrote about someone I knew the most, one of very few who really do. Call it art, call it blasphemy, call it catharsis; it is all and it is none. I have done my utmost to make this story something different, something unique. I shall not harry you much further, but only to remind (as ever) that, mere mortal that I am, I do not own the NiGHTS series; it is in far worthier hands than mine. Hereon I resign, for this story can say far more than I ever could.
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Prologue: Ingression
The wind was cold, sweeping the crisp autumn air around, a brush at a whim. The rustle of leaves tossed playfully about in the breeze, pressed against the side of an old stone wall, the like of which littered the woods, remnants of old places long since forgotten. Some trees still bore bright plumage, though their limbs were dark and lithe, like bony hands held over the air.
Stepping easily amidst the forest of branches, he cast a glance to his surroundings, drinking in the scenery with his dark brown eyes. The wind passed him by, tugging at his jacket, baiting him to forsake his view for his hood. He nudged right through, touching the edge of his glasses. The wind was not the master of this place; he was.
At his whim, the scenery changed. Trees plunged skywards, and the earth beneath him turned to an ocean of brush. Everything burst into vibrant green all around him, forests the world had never before seen. In the blink of an eye, the fancy was gone; the earth resumed its usual presence, ignorant of the change. No one would know the difference. His eyes alone could see such things. The mood was ever with him—the need to change, to control, to create. This steady world of gloom and darkness, that which seldom changed but for the worse, was easy to switch for another, one far more pleasant, perhaps. The real world was complicated, and ugly, and hard. The worlds of the mind were far easier traversed.
The wind swelled; in his mind he fed it, from a breeze to a torrent gust. The forest around him was blasted flat in an instant, covered beneath miles of snow and ice. Towering majesties of glacial ice crested a sea of drifts, a pearlescent world of white and gray. There was sound, from all angles and places. Scenes of glorious combat overtook him. Tanks tore over mounds of snow, unleashing a hail of plasma from their turret-mounted mass drivers. Following from the rear came rows of personnel carriers, machineguns bursting from their armored sides. On the other side of the mounds, the enemy faltered, their tremendous numbers liquefied by the sheer mass of firepower that came upon them. He stood at the crest, watching as the enemy broke ranks, futilely resisting the crushing victory that lay ahead. He led the charge, the plunge to purge the Ice Planet of the Dark One, once and for all. The Crescent Armada's birth into power was here on Lucia, where the military genius of the Ardorless Admiral, Silver Crescent, was carved into the ice for all ages, in the War Without Wages…
Suddenly, the vision changed. The skies blazed with the chill fires of the unprecedented. Great ships, black and crimson, blotted out the skies, pulling in from places unknown. Terrible weapons turned to the earth; darkmatter fell from the heavens, as the Dark One's Dread Fleets laid waste to all things living beneath, scourging the ground with an unlight none could withstand.
The vision was from his hands, stolen from the means of its creator. It was all over, the glory of victory. The great admiral was dead—only the Creator, the meak and vulnerable Narrator, all too human, none too great. This could not happen! He wrote the stories, he told the tales, the ballads were under his hand, as he saw right, the lord of a great realm—how could this be?
The Dark One's great ship, the Dreadnaught Mire, hovered overhead, seeing the destruction of all that was good. The Narrator could only watch in horror as his world, the one place he had any control, any meaning, was torn to shreds about him. The Dark One didn't win! He lost, he died, he was destroyed, and all evil in the universe with him—
The fantasy was the reality, and it was dreadful. The air rippled crimson in front of him. He needed no explanation—he knew, he always knew, it was too obvious to think of, that it was not the great warrior Goldeye to save him, not even the least among the heroes of the world. No, this thing that came upon him, a blasphemy of his creations, was one of the Dark One's terrible minions, come to finish off the last insignificant speck of good in this place before the Terrene was once more cast to the eternal darkness…
He knew of all the things that walked or thought in the Terrene; he had fathered them all, they were all his heirs, even the most foul his offspring. But this monstrosity was none among them, wrought not by his hands—the irony! It was like a dark shadow, a creeping monstrosity of no particular element, save perhaps fear itself. It outstretched long, entangling arms of blackest despair, clawing as though for his innermost being. The Narrator attempted to flee, to put his legs to good use, but it was a wasted effort, for this thing could outrun time itself. The Shadow's touch was cold, clammy, like the grip of death—it tore at him wildly, digging into him, as though searching for some choice organ to eat and rejecting all the rest. He could not scream, or fight, or evade—it was too late, too late. Darkness surrounded him, the darkest of all, and all there was left was his agonized terror…
There was light again, so bright that he went completely blind, like a man seeing for the first time. A strong, but gentle, arm curled around his midsection and pulled, yanking him backwards, further into the light. Beyond, there was nothing more…