So this is what it is to die. White surrounds me, pierced occasionally by golden spears that stab through the gaps of the silver-white universe into my eyes.
It doesn't hurt. There's none of the anticipated pain, just an almost comfortable helplessness. I die like a babe just born, swaddled in soft whiteness. The only detraction from the feeling of cloud-sinking bliss are the two dots of red pain that mark the bite. The itch even as they flame with agony, a miserable, frustrating sensation.
I am submerged in milk, slowly drifting along on mysterious, slow currents. Slowly, Vakama's words bubble through the wall...
"I'm so sorry, for everything..."
"No you aren't, TRAITOR!" I'm awoken by a terrible noise, part shriek, and part something eerily like a Matoran's voice, ending in a pain-filled howl. It is by my sore throat that I realize that I had made it. By then I am awake, and the lonely emptiness of the deserted Po-Metru is already piercing into my bones. I very much want to repeat that howl, to let the Rahi out and dwell on the simple side of life for once/again.
A chasmous three days seperates me from Vakama, and I have taken to prowling the abyss' edge like a trapped Muaka. These days I barely know myself. We are falling apart, we Hordika. With the Rahaga's influence gone, and one of our number already surrendered to the darkness within, our days are numbered.
These days I feel that I am Becoming, though what I do not know. I suppose I am becoming the Rahi within, but even Gaaki couldn't tell me what species my Rahi-side is. The Rahaga did warn us that if we were not careful, the beast inside could change us on the outside as well. The sun casts golden light on the half-finished carving of Toa Lhikan that I had slept under that night, my camp never permanent these days, and throws a nameless shadow on the rich tan stone.
These days I am Becoming a Rahi as enigmatic and nameless as shifting shadow.
The sun glows gold on the sands, shining silver where carving tools or Kikinalo scales have been lost. The tall statues cast long shadows across them; graceful brush-strokes on a beautiful canvas, they suggest nothing of the webs of terror that stretch above the city.
These nights I dream of those webs and of the thousand horrors they contain.
Some nights, I have dreams of undefined shadows in that net that entraps our city, faceless beasts that scuttle the strands of life and weave the webs of death and sleep. Other nights, like this one, I dream of how it all began, or how it all will end, or one of many thousand Hordika adventures. Yet the more and more common are the dreams where there are webs, but I do not fear them- instead, I sit up in them and chatter commands to the Visorak who swarm on them. Those nightmares terrify me beyond all else, because they are not horrible, but wonderful, and because they are dangerous. I nearly forgot to dodge a Boggarak patrol because of the thought that I should be up there commanding them, passing down Sidorak's orders...
I fear that I am Becoming, not a Rahi, but an undefined shadow with glowing red eyes that others run from. And then I will chase, and I will hunt.
I am scared. And the Visorak are nothing to this fear.
It is this bizarre mix of terror and longing that drives me farther and farther away from the others, wandering farther and farther each time until now I do not see them, but sleep and live like a Rahi on my own. I do not know if it is discomfort, disdain, fear or shame that keeps me from them. Am I merely becoming an antisocial beast? Or is that oddly superior feeling something from my Rahi side? Do I fear them finding out what I am Becoming, or am I ashamed of how far I've fallen?
I wander into the shadow of the tall cliffs bordering Po-Metru to the northeast. Some of the canyons and small valleys are webbed over, and I watch the shadowy dots of Visorak crawl over them, wrapping Rahi tighter into preservation, experimenting with those not caught and preserved...
I suddenly realize that my feet have carried me toward the Visorak valleys. My heart hammers my ribcage, and I hurry to retrace my steps, as a Kikanalo bellows nearby. The weight that falls from the sky knocks the breath out of me, sends me tumbling to the ground, and then takes advantage of my weakness to coil itself, hissing, about me.
Mutant Lohrak. At least a hundred pounds and thirty feet of muscular body, and fifty feet of dragon wings; powered by the anger and hatred of all Enemies that the Visorak gave them. Wickedly curved vestigial hind-talons cut deep into my thigh as the wings beat about my head. It bares fangs as long as my forearm, silvery venom glistening at the tip, and I smash my fin barb into it with all my might. It hisses in fury, uncoiling itself from around me- with a push and two powerful strokes it is airborne, and this time it shrieks, and the rock below me explodes.
–Great Beings, grant me strength then I am on all fours, and forming my Rhotuka. The power gathers, showers up from the streams running far beneath the parched ground and splash and bubble only in the shadowy cavern, and the power shrinks inward, to a small disk of energy. WHOOM, it's off and strikes the Mutant Lohrak smack in the chin, and with a betrayed wail, it disappears.
I stand there on four legs, and pant, looking around for the Rahi. It is only when I see the legions of Roporak that have crawled down out of the Visorak valleys bow their heads in respect that I see what I have Become, and what I was Becoming all along.
The newest Kahgarak raises her head and howls, and the howl is mournful and triumphant and threatening at once. Much has been lost but much has been gained.
There is no such thing as a "normal" Tarawyn Worldwalker story.
Tarawyn Worldwalker