The Longest Road / The Deepest Void
The scene that greets me is so familiar that for a moment I think I've been taken back to Gaia, and I feel cheated at almost losing my mind for nothing. Then I notice that I stand at ground level and there are no mountains or sea in the distance, and that my senses are curiously numbed, and I start to get the feeling that I'm still out of my body. Well, that suits me just fine. I still haven't figured out how to open the path to the beginning of the world, and it would be a poor end to my performance if I had to resort to brute force to destroy Gaia.
The endless plains and red sky in front of me aren't worth exploring (and I'm not capable of flying here, despite still being in a Trance), and I turn to see if there's anything behind me. My eyes widen as I see an enormous gorge perhaps half a mile away, stretching right across my field of vision as neat and narrow as a razor wound. I can't see any point where it even narrows, but there's a tree-shaped blur somewhere off to my extreme right that might prove to be useful.
It grows from the other side of the gorge like some twisted, stunted thing on a mountaintop, but the leaves are points of light the colour of the Iifa Tree's core and the branches are wraiths of Mist. All souls released to the planet in the last five millennia are here, trapped like flies in amber and then hidden away and hung up like the pretty baubles they are, never to return to Gaia. Such a shame. Now how do I get to the other side of the gorge? I have other places to be, and this silent world sets my teeth on edge.
After a few minutes of watching and thinking, I understand what this strange scene means. The ever-crumbling edges of the gorge are nothing more exotic than the sands of the world's largest and strangest hourglass. Every death means a new leaf on the tree, a new life in death. I note with some satisfaction that it appears to be doing well of late, but I can't reflect on my little triumphs while my body remains isolated and vulnerable in the physical world. Time runs here as it does on Gaia, and Zidane will come to the Iifa Tree sooner or later.
Stretching out my mind for the second time this day, I reach into the web of Gaia's very life-stuff and sink my senses into it, feeling the memories of a dying world, relishing the way I hold them at arm's length in my palm. Slowly, ever so slowly, I draw the strands together with all the care of a mother untangling a child's hair. The leaves tremble and slide uneasily, sheep dimly aware of the slaughterhouse, straggling away and then returning, unable to stray far from their fellows. Let them worry. They have good cause.
The process is slow, but finally this strangest of bridges is ready for use. I cast a critical eye over its smoke-and-glass smoothness, the clean lines and planes and the pure translucency of its structure, naked and endless as a scream. It fills my vision, green and white like the dead stare of a blind man, and I stare back, realising for the first time the gravity of my intentions. The hot anger of betrayal has left me, expelled in pointless vengeance upon a world already in ashes. All that is left is the dull knowledge of my empty life's end, and the even duller knowledge that there can no longer be any going back. I will make an end of everything and the only thing that can possibly stop me is my own end, whether by the restless course of time or by the hand of my own dear brother. And I can do no more about it than an actor can suddenly sweep away his costume and leap into the audience. We are all puppets, pawns in the great chess game of fate, actors on a stage reading out the scripts written at our births, and there is no longer any need to pretend otherwise. It's a thought both relieving and oppressive, and it is the final push I need.
As I place a cautious toe onto the bridge, the world changes as though it were a candle being snuffed. This time I'm not surprised by the sudden change of scene, but the new reality my mind has chosen to inhabit is by no means a pleasant one. It's cold, windy and raining hard, and I look around for some shelter. There is none. There is only the granite bridge, the leaden skies, and the glassy rain. There is a guardhouse behind me, rising into the grey air, but I know there's no point in trying the door. There can never be any going back in this place, and so I begin the long walk back to the origin.
The balustrades of the bridge are as high as my chest, and the incessant wind slaps my sodden hair across my cheek. I reach up and pull it from my face for what seems to be the millionth time, and a sudden harsh gust pushes it back across my cheek. I reach up and pull it from my face, and the wind pushes it back, and I pull it away. Always the same. There's no end to this world. I've been walking for what seems like forever and there's nothing but sky and air and the bridge rolling out before me like a butterfly's tongue and water and more water. Water cascading in the air, water streaming to the ground, water undulating across the grey stone and mirrored in the grey skies and water grey like twilight and ashes. And me, the only thing of colour in this place, blood and bone and... yes, and ashes, ashes moulted with every footfall. I wonder if I'll consume myself in my own flames before I can set existence itself alight. No! I can't allow myself to think like this. I am Kuja. I am perfection. I am the angel of death. I am become death itself, and I will graciously share that death as I did my life.
By now my heels are aching and I'm soaked to the bone, and I might as well have been walking the same ten feet of bridge this whole time. Time. Hah. I fancy I might have imagined the concept. I keep my head down and my arms folded as I walk in a vain effort to preserve some warmth and keep the rain out of my eyes. God, I must look absolutely pathetic, hunched over like an old woman, a beggar in scarlet rags.
I chance a glance upwards, slitting my eyes against the hated weather, and my heart leaps as I realise that I can see the end of the bridge. The land beyond is a flat and barren waste; dry, flaking earth, twilight-dark and grey as ash, but its solid dullness is a pleasing sight. I hurry on as fast as I can without becoming careless, and finally I am within two steps of solid ground.
Hesitating for a moment despite the lashing rain, I survey the dead earth before me. What could this bizarre, unrelenting world throw at me now? I have mastered the souls of Gaia and made a path from their memories, and I am now ready to finish treading that path. If the illusions of this place have any basis in reality, then there should be nothing more standing between me and the thing that made the world. It's possible that there is some sort of trial to overcome before I am allowed access to the soul of the universe, but that doesn't bother me. A simple test of strength would be a welcome relief after the lunacy I've endured to get to this point.
I march forward into the still world, and to my surprise it remains that way. The bland warmth and dryness of this world make the soaking chill of the bridge a distant memory, and I am warm and dry as well. Best of all, I have my powers back. I rise a few feet into the air and perform half a dozen lazy somersaults, and as I do so I notice that the bridge has vanished.
In its place is a slumping vista of hills and valleys, covered as far as the eye can see with patches of some spiky black substance. Above the jagged horizon, twin streams of taintless light pour forth from a single unseen point and illuminate the coal-bright world below. I turn myself upright and take a good look at the scenery, letting my imagination play idly over its features. The sky, I think, has fallen to the ground like a shroud and left the air bleeding quicksilver, and the scarlet and ultramarine stars gleam indifferently in their new home. As I contemplate the constellations of this fallen heaven, a few points of light resolve without fuss into the suggested outline of a tree. This understanding spreads wildfire-fast across the landscape, and I realise that the glassy fronds of charcoal are in fact blackened and skeletal trees and thorns.
A point of movement up in the sky suddenly catches my eye, shocking me out of my reverie. When I look up it's gone and I assure myself that it was just an odd flicker of light, but I continue to scan the sky. I can't be too careful here. As if in response to that thought the thing reveals itself again. In the space of a few seconds it grows from a pinprick to a pinhead, and even from this distance I recognise the purposeful soar and swoop of a full-grown dragon. A few seconds more, and the appearance of a hair-fine pair of wings removes any possible doubt.
I drop to the ground in an attempt to look less confrontational and watch it approach. Dragons are imperious creatures. Any display of strength by a presumptive stranger is taken as a challenge that must be answered, and I have to admit that I'm not in the best shape for a fight. But I didn't get this far by being faint and nerveless, and I'm more than capable of rescuing myself from a dragon.
Now it is the size of my hand, and it's almost too gorgeous to harm-- twice the mass of my former steed and armoured at foot and tail with pewter-coloured plates; skin as dark and slick as an eel's and gleaming dully with shifting patterns of red and blue; and with four spreading, scarlet-tipped wings. I wonder what those snowy wings will look like once I stain them completely scarlet...
