ACT I | THE TYRANT'S MALEVOLENCE


CHAPTER V | WARNING


THE TRAVELER

The first element Valentin´s eyes could process was the light.

Bright. So bright.

To see in front of one-self was one of the many small luxuries a person could enjoy during the day to day. Always taken for granted, but never its absence considered. An absence which Valentin panickedly began to notice.

Had he gone blind? He could feel his arms in front of him. He could feel the movement of his fingers and the weight under his two feet.

And yet he could not see.

Anything but the maddening, absolute white his eyes were assaulted with, one eternal second after the next.

Despite the feeling of an uncompromising searchlight being pointed straight at his corneas, Valentin had to admit that the rest of the sensations coursing through his body were not entirely….unpleasant.

"[One moment,]" the Ghost interrupted his fast forming thoughts. Valentin could hear the machine initiate a procedure he would not torture his brain with by trying to comprehend. He closed his eyes, silently wishing for the drone to speed up what it was doing.

As the searchlights still penetrated his shut eyelids, Valentin sought to distract himself by focusing on the pleasant sensations which annoyingly did not grace his exhausted oculi.

The light felt tangible against his form. Physical. A thin, cloudy sheet enveloping his body. The fluffiest pillows pressing softly against him, vigilant in their unrequested mission to erase all discomfort from his tense muscles and straining shoulders.

Warmth.

A drowsy child who sat besides a fireplace, seeking refuge from the harsh bite of winter frost which assailed the world outside. A hard working family, who had to sometimes forego the modern comforts of electric heating due to the sword of economic hardship which constantly hung over the heads of ever-concerned parents.

Stories which were shared beside a wood fed fire, gifting the comforts of nostalgia and the hopes of tomorrow to a wide eyed child. A father, who would gladly retell the same stories as many times as the child needed, as many times as the child felt right, and would lull the prized son to innocent sleep. Protected; separated from the truths of a harsh and cold world outside these doors.

Valentin caught his mind drifting. Such a simple word.

Warmth.

A mundane collection of letters, to open the floodgates to eager memories and emotions.

Doors to his heart which for long had been barred shut. Not a product of callousness, not the bounties of regret, but simple practicality and circumstance.

His friends, he could consider family, and yet his trust in them would never be the same. Not through any fault of their own, but such had been determined by the blind eyes of fate.

They were American and Chinese. They were Triumvirate.

Not Soviet.

The barriers and divisions, suspicions of foreigners, nurtured within his subconscious by the red star of State would never be forgotten. Could never be forgotten. Yet he knew he could trust his friends. Ever caring, eager Liana, ever understanding, patient Fang.

But could the same be said about the people they knowingly and unknowingly brought to his existence?

There were lines he dared not cross, lest he attract the gaze of the Kremlin. The uncompromising scrutiny of the hammer and sickle.

A smart Soviet greets the world with a smile, with a hand ever resting on his weapon.

Not that this matters anymore.

The unnatural soothing, which the incomprehensible light elicited all over his body, could not calm the storm of thoughts which gathered inside the as-of-yet undefiled privacy of his mind.

If he survived this ordeal, his own - prepared - suite inside the Lubyanka was all he could look forward to. The privilege granted by a considerate KGB, which assuredly could not wait for their next esteemed guest to arrive.

Curiously, the very same possibility, which had terrorized the sleep of many Soviets loyal and disloyal alike, proved to be liberating.

If his fate was already decided, what worry should he have? Why fear the light which blinded, and yet comforted?

Why focus on the cold which awaited, over the warmth which had long arrived?

"[There we go! You may open your eyes. Though looking up is not advised,]" the machine stated, interrupting the long conversation he enjoyed with himself.

His first instinct was to hesitate at following the suggestions of an entity as unknown as it was, before hindsight refocused his decisions. This Ghost had just effortlessly teleported half of the Triumvirate´s Expeditionary Force back to Earth.

Perhaps it was prudent to do as it said.

He opened his eyes. Half of him had wished he had not done so, the other half awestruck at the sight before them.

He instantaneously understood that what they were experiencing was not meant for mortal eyes or mortal minds. It was difficult to comprehend and grasp in its entirety. Was he looking at a city center? Something which resembled a city center? Had he snapped, and his scurrying mind scrambled to settle upon a shape, a context he could vaguely recognize?

He tried to focus on the shapes. On the squares he could see in the distance. Perfect at a first glance. Precise, calculated, chiseled. And yet flowing, moving, adjusting. Contradictions which fought for supremacy over the claim to his understanding, and yet harmonious as he beheld them.

Squares, within squares, within cubes, within cubes, within squares.

Growing. Always grows, always grows, always grows, always changes.

He stopped staring, lest his sanity start to weave and dance like the perfect imperfections on the horizon.

His eyes were not the only senses to inquire to his brain for answers to the enigma surrounding them. He heard noise.

Droning.

A long, slow whisper.

Voices he could hear, encoded into the mathematical equations behind the very concept of a soundwave.

Voices, which squish and stretch Truth as they please, as a child does with putty. Which delight in adding Truth´s wordless screams into the chorus which furthered torments itself.

Voices, awakening directives purposely carved in cursive into the strands of his DNA.

Voices which establish the new limits of Logic, as current axioms prove too simple, to uninteresting. And Logic agrees, and Logic joins the improvised dance, for too long have his thirteen feet remained unused.

Voices, inviting the atoms which made his flesh into a nice afternoon of tea, to catch up on old memories and reminisce on the times before they were asked to form his body.

Voices that see newborn universes yawn, where shining bright planets orbit, pulled beyond by the Aria of Making. By a Song of Life, whose rhythms and truths hidden within each note direct the stars to spin and roll. Where they roll, their purpose unheeded, without meaning, lustre or names.

Voices, comforting the Andromeda Galaxy on their expecting child, and advising the avoidance of alcoholic beverages during pregnancy.

Voices that beckon Sanity to retire back to his home. His gifts declined, his advances protested. An obstacle accidentally left on the astral bridge between dimensions, by the strawberry-skinned ferryman who added wheels to his boat.

Voices, musing on the modern and chic fashion of Time unvisited neighbors have adopted.

Voices that chastise the cartoonist, hunched over his desk after long hours of work. For this reality lacks color, lacks an overarching theme to separate it from the rest pieces of crumpled paper which forlorny lay at the bottom of the bin. Awaiting the shredder.

Voices, laughing as cause and effect knock on a front door, demanding respect that has scarcely been earned.

Is he going mad?

Mercifully, the droning eventually became white noise. Always present, but easy enough to ignore.

Maybe he has snapped.

As his mind struggles, he beholds even more shapes and sights which kindly let physics know her services are no longer required.

He can see buildings. Some, mockeries to the puny sizes of the tallest skyscrapers of Earth. Others, no bigger than familiar shacks. Sometimes, the buildings decide that solid mass is a suitable look to wear. When he looks away for just a split second and looks back, he can see that the fickle buildings prefer to be liquids. Sometimes gas, sometimes all three.

Sometimes the buildings like the spots where they are built, sometimes they decide to relocate.

He feels faint, as he watches a skyscraper bend like an arm. A perfect ninety degree angle. And then it decides to return to its upright position. It speaks to its neighbor, asking which form is more appropriate, and happy with the well-thought answer, decides to bend again.

The buildings shine like lighthouses. Searchlights assaulting his corneas once more. He makes out some carved from condensed brightness, others molded from melted clouds.

The buildings make forests. Spires that rise as far as his poor eyes can see. Up ahead, he sees a street. No, two streets. Or three? Four? Five, six, seven, eight, nine ten, eleven, twelve-

Each way he looks, the streets multiply. And yet he knows they all reach the same destination.

How does he know they reach the same destination?

He wants to scream, as every time he blinks the city shifts. The architecture dances, the streets sing in a rhythm that rises high and higher, before dropping low and lower. The streets gossip between themselves in hushed tones he can still hear, wondering which sight better suits the visitor which puzzlingly walks with only two legs. They giggle as his two eyes blink. If only he had fifteen, he could appreciate what the streets want him to see.

And yet they mold to his battered psyche. As if trying to be accommodating.

It should be impossible.

But have we really analyzed the concept of impossible? What is impossible? A collection of letters? A word which conveys a concept? A reverse concept? A concept which we do not think as a concept? That which is and yet is not? Can Man, in his arrogance, dare lay claim to say what is and cannot? Is the term not an inherent paradox?

A hand grips his arm. He breathes heavily, for that hand is a raft he will hold on to, even if its owner is not aware of his plight.

He looks to his side to see Liana gripping his arm tightly. "Sorry," she says, in a tight voice which reverberates and is muffled under the waters of the ever-present white noise, her head as light as the clouds under their feet. "I feel like I'm going to fall. There's so much…"

He nods mutely, empathetically. He cannot make out her body entirely, the light ironically obscuring many things around him. He can still notice a shimmering barrier enveloping her form, and his likely as well. Protection from the Ghosts, most likely.

And….now that she mentions the floor, he can feel it clearly too. The floor shifted underneath them, unsure if it was a solid or a liquid. Choosing one, and then changing to the other, and then back to the first in the matter of seconds.

Of course! Walking is yet another luxury that he is to be deprived of during this time of pilgrimage.

"Don't worry," he tries to comfort her, his own voice he felt inside his throat, for his ears had been borrowed by the mischievous whispers inside his head ; his attempted confidence a comedy only his screaming mind can truly appreciate. "Just don't look down".

"The squares…"

"I know. Don't look down."

Don't look down.

Valentin swallowed. "What…what do you see?"

"Glass. Clouds. Buildings. Light. So much light. Paths. Too many paths. It doesn't make sense. I can't…"

"Hey, come here," he pulled her into an awkward, but tight embrace. "Just close your eyes. Don't look at everything. Don't look at everything."

He closed his eyes too.

And he could still see the squares seared under his eyelids, inside squares inside cubes inside squares inside cubes inside cubes inside squares.

They both found mutual comfort inside that embrace which lasted minutes. Or hours? What was time, but another law to be shown the door inside this sphere?

Eventually, they both would separate. Deep breaths the only pause on the road to lunacy they all walked. Despite the Ghost´s warnings, Valentin decided to look up. Perhaps, respite from the shifting city of resplendent alabaster which patiently waited for his gaze to return.

And up he looked.

And down he looked back a second later.

For the city crawled up impossible angles above him. It hung to the insides of the sphere, scaling the curvature. Shifting and molding as it coated every inch of the shell of the alien he could never hope to understand. And the city stretched into the white abyss above him. Stretched until the ends of time and the limits of causality.

Stretched, as the buildings grew and buildings formed.

Circles, inside squares, inside circles, inside squares inside squares inside circles inside squares.

Grows, grows, grows, always grows.

growsgrowsgrowsgrowsgardengrowsgrowsgrowsgrows

Valentin panted as he looked down once more, down into the ground which playfully cycled through all the states of matter, rendering balanced footing impossible.

He was losing his mind. He felt the insides of his skull dance and shift to the chorus of the infinite city above and beyond him.

A voice thankfully provided sucor before he silently sunk to depths a sane man could not explore while remaining as he was.

Before he inquired to truths and realities he felt staring at his eyes from within the buildings and shacks.

Before he gave in to the light, and let it burn away his body and liberate his mind to concepts higher than the third dimension of existence and physicality.

He was but a drawing on a sheet of paper, unaware of many axes of direction, but he only had to stand up from the paper and grasp the hand which held the pencil. A hand which he could feel perched above his head, descending from the infinite of the sphere.

Reaching out.

Take the hand.

Yet he saw nothing.

Stop yourself.

Focus on your friends, ignore what knocks the doors to your mind.

With great effort, he did. He focused on Fang, his friend regaining enough control to speak; hollow and muted as his voice was.

"This place is…something…" Fang said slowly. "I don't know if I like it or want to blow it up."

"I alternate between wanting to look at everything and wanting to shoot myself to make it stop," Valentin shrugged, carefully not to look up once again. "This place is fucked."

"Agreed," Fang shot a look over to the side. "Those two seem to be managing a bit better."

Valentin looked over to where Fang's head was tilted. Milya, the linguist, and the other CIA man were talking. He was careful to avoid staring at the floors or the buildings, he focused on their faces.

What was his name? "Jacob Milton". Right. Something about the man seemed profoundly off – and it wasn't just the fact that he was CIA and thus, a spook. The CIA was nearly as terrifying as the KGB, their reputations coating the very letters of both acronyms in dread. Words which hung over Soviet and American citizens alike, the invisible watchers waiting for deviance or missteps before being brought down onto the unsuspecting.

But there was something else about this man which unsettled him.

Out of all of them, he clearly was handling the unfathomable sights best. Even Milya, a scholar whose mind he imagined could untangle at least some of the mysteries and contradictions submerging them like the deepest of oceans, was only daring to look at the buildings. Not up, toward the infinite, nor down, into the invitations of the dancing currents.

This Jacob, though dared to stare into the infinite. He politely accepted the waltz of the rivers, and he held casual conversations with the squares and the circles. He could stand from the page he had been drawn on, and shake the hand which nestled on the blinding abyss above their heads.

His head ferried his eyes as they washed all over the knowing unknown of the growing city. Of the alabaster forest.

And when he witnessed all, he looked again. And again. And then he looked forward, ready to press on to an unseen destination. An ever moving goal.

This man boasted superhuman mental fortitude.

Or perhaps he had come to the logical conclusion he flirted with so many times.

To give in to the light. To give in to the chorus which whispered facts and lies. Invitations to decipher which was which.

And give in he did. And so he could stare into the infinite, and pinpoint its end.

Or maybe what he saw was different from what coursed through Valentin´s mind.

Either way, he did not trust this man.

"Well," Valentin's voice sounded dry. Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the whispers which had made a home of his skull and rested on top his cushy brain. "Should we move forward?" He was unsure of what forward even meantin a realm where the endless grows in two directions.

"Let's convene first," Jacob said, lifting a hand and striding over. Yes, there was something off about him. Even with his muted voice, he spoke like a man with experience, with capability for command, with control over all situations he found himself in. And oddly, he didn't have a strong American accent…in fact it was as though he didn't have one at all.

"I want to make sure we're all seeing the same things," "Jacob" said.

"Where did the Ghosts go?" Liana asked.

"Probably watching us invisibly," "Jacob" said dismissively. "They'll come out when they want to. Milya has a theory."

"Do tell," Valentin looked to the linguist. "Please explain this madness."

"Right," she cleared her throat, blinking a few times. "This…place…if we want to use that term, is impossible to fully define."

He snorted, almost wanting to burst out laughing. "What a brilliant observation."

"Cut the sarcasm," she raised an eyebrow. "Simply put – this place conforms to our own minds. We think in a three-dimensional space. We think in obvious terms. We know what is familiar. Roads. Buildings. We're all seeing these things, right? Or some approximation?"

All of them nodded. "But there are obviously things which are tangibly wrong with them in ways we can't process properly," she added. "Remember this is a paracausal entity – by definition it cannot be normal."

"And what are we supposed to do with this?" Fang asked, sounding like his teeth were clenched. "Ask it to fix itself?"

"I don't think it can fix itself," Milya said. "At least…not in the way you're wanting it to."

"Wonderful," he could imagine Fang closing his eyes in mock exasperation. "So what do we do now?"

"Let's move forward," Valentin repeated. "We're not doing any good standing here."

"I hate this," Liana muttered. "I'm going to have to look forward."

"Just focus straight ahead," he told her, taking her hand. "Focus straight ahead."

They walked forward, down streets which took a liking to the texture of clouds. The impossible made possible teased the periphery of his vision. The infinite called, the long slow whisper.

Just look. Look at what it has made for you. Look at the buildings it carves. Look at the shapes it grows. Do not be shy, do not condemn it, for this is what the inside of your head looks like now. Is it not?

He hoped Liana took his advice, for he was struggling to follow it.

He could not bear it anymore. He had to look.

Just once.

And his eyes moved just one time. It was just one time, but the infinite happily obliged his involuntary wishes.

No matter where he looked, a new path was before him. Roads collided, joined, and split apart, yet seemed to flow into a cohesive whole that made his poor brain want to shut down.

The roads grow. The buildings grow. The squares and the circles grow.

Allgrowsgrowsgrowsgrowsallgrowsgrowsgrowsgrows

His legs moved forward, following the group, but his mind spun; twisted.

As he walked, he could notice the infinite carve new sights all around him. The hand which held that pencil decided to add new creations to the ever expanding page of reality it used as canvas.

Statues rose from the cloudy ground, chiseled from the bottled radiance of a healthy sun. Figures he could make out in that light not meant for flesh eyes. They were giants, looking down upon his small form. His fragile form. They all varied, from subtle insectoids to titanic bipeds. He could see tendrils, wings, mandibles, jaws.

Variance

They bore biologies familiar to Earth. They bore biologies which would make a scientist burn titles and begin studying all over again. They bore biologies alien and familiar, far beyond the possible and close enough to the real.

Variance

They terrified him, and yet their stature marked them not as conquerors. Champions, which towered over visitors never meant to witness their immortalized forms. Proud, eternal, radiant.

Who were they? Efigies to others before? To others who had walked the growing city in times long past and forgotten?

Tributes? To what concept?

Ad Victoriam, whispered the chorus which still followed his every step. Which drank his every thought.

The words filled him with resolve. A fire which came from nowhere. A courage which felt inhuman. A steel which the shambling wreck he was but mere moments before was unworthy of. He looked back at the colossi which stood at attention before the visitors. He swore he saw their heads nod, their eyes burning with the intensity of a white hot forge. Measuring him. Accepting him.

The chorus inside his mind shifted. The words were now clear. A chant which slowly intensified. A storm which brewed inside his soul. Warriors beckoned ahead, while he could feel salutes behind his back.

The strain on his mind began to ease. He could look at the infinite without fear. There was so much he could understand, and in time he could try. The fire fueled him, dared him to look at his surroundings. Not as a mewling puppy, but as a daring explorer.

And he dared to look, at the city which grows to eternity. The wild forest, tamed. The architecture stable, planned, magnificient.

And he dared to look at the nauseating floor below him. The inmaterial roads now polished silver. Strong, durable, proud.

And he dared to look, at the resplendent abyss above his head, where his sanity had almost fallen to many times. The abyss which now held a being. A being he could not understand. A being he felt trust toward. A being he could not see, and would burn his eyes should he try.

A being he could feel the champions behind and beside him proudly see. As their eyes revealed the crucible of their souls. A crucible which had burned many times. A crucible which produced the sternest armor, unyielding iron and sharpened swords. Burned in that crucible, they stared into the being above, and they did not flinch, they did not cower, they did not singe.

One day, he would stare at that being too. And his gaze would not stray.

One day, his statue would stand proud alongside colossi brothers and sisters.

Was this why he was brought to the Traveler?

To be reshaped? To be remade?

As Valentin mused upon such revelations, he unknowingly quickened his pace. He led the way for the others now, Liana no longer holding his hand, but trailing closely behind him nonetheless. His sudden burst of energy emboldened the others, as they strode toward an unseen and yet felt destination.

The Ghost materialized in front of them. In front of him. "[Your minds appear to have sufficiently transitioned to the interior! We are pleased you have adapted so quickly.]"

As the machine uttered these words, its single blue eye fixated on Valentin's helmeted face.

A knowing gaze washed over his revitalized face, his sharpened eyes. The Ghost´s subtly nodded, understanding, satisfied.

The machine waited for his inquiry. Not the nervous question of a scared Human thrust upon something he was not meant to see, but the confident inquisition of one ready for his destiny.

"Take us to the Traveler," Valentin expressed. He was ready to meet this entity, ready to hear its message. The light which had covered his body throughout the expedition now felt natural. An extension of his mind and body. He could not command it yet, but he could feel its flow through his body and mind, he could hear its aria intangible. He understood what the whispers were, alien tongues whose words bent into the known.

The Ghost´s gaze met the intensity of his command. Not in contempt or offended disrespect, but in the battlefield of equals. The machine responded well to his newfound strength.

Valentin could tell the others were confused by his sudden change in demeanor. Fang cocked his head in silent appraisal, while Liana seemed to look upon him in a new light. Even "Jacob" gave him a silent, deferential not, followed by Milya. Perhaps they had not heard the call of the champions behind them. Perhaps they had not heard the whispers so clearly as he had. The fire in them not yet awakened. The infinite had not reforged their spirits.

It would, this he knew. In due time, in its due course.

The Light always finds a way.

The Ghost bobbed, almost in acknowledgement of his private belief.

A bond he could feel begin to form with the machine. A bond he did not fully understand, as he did many things, but a bond which felt right. A bond which both machine and man fully welcomed, as he saw the Ghost float to his shoulder and stay within his orbit. It's fins spun, as the drone expressed joy in its own unique way.

"[Yes. You will be taken to Her. It will start now. Watch and listen. Do not worry. You will know what it means,]" the Ghost answered. The will of a leader behind the synthesized voice of the machine.

Before any of them could say anything, the city of light vanished, and they were plunged into complete darkness.


THE TRAVELER

A silent field awaited its visitors.

No - not a field.

A garden.

Valentin´s eyes were not capable of witnessing the end of the prairie before them. The light was gone, in its place, ephemeral aurora. The sky of this garden transcended the word "beauty". The emerald hue of the aurora provided a welcoming partner to the nebulas and stars in naked display over the cloudless sky. It was neither night nor day, it was neither depressingly gloomy nor oppressively bright.

Balance

Expertly woven between the nebulas and planets, he could see inky strands and tendrils of black smoke. The miasma did not choke the skies; did not hamper breath or jealously dim colors. Instead, it contrasted the beauty of the jewels above. Obsidian to diamonds, the smoke wrapped itself around welcoming stars, glad to be appreciated. Glad to be let shine.

The Infinite

Yes, this is what this was. That word which had tormented him so inside the shell. That word which now rang with delightful clarity inside his ever seeing ego.

The painting spoke without words, the canvas of this garden effortlessly conveyed a meaning so many mortals had struggled to define. The word came to him naturally, the whispers which had grown subdued, nearly indistinguishable, so much are they in harmonious accord with his thoughts.

The Infinite, as he instinctively knew that to search for a border to this prairie would prove fruitless.

For the Garden always grew. Like the city of Light, it always grew.

To Perpetuity

In all directions, it grew.

His thoughts fertilize the very air. He wonders what fruits grow in this rich soil. What bounties feed the realities which extend from the roots of the tree of silver wings which he knows stands at the center of this garden.

He does not stop to ponder on the ideas which sprout on the tilled ground his mind has proven to be. He does not question knowledge he could not possibly be familiar with, and yet the voices whisper into his ear.

His gaze drinks as he beholds the garden, the crops he cultivates inside his mind need be watered.

His eyes wash over flowers.

The garden grows, and so the flowers grow.

Grow in all directions.

But not all grow under the same privileges.

Some had sections of the soil carefully prepared. They thrived, as they were lovingly watered, lovingly cared for. They towered in prepared rows, and yet their shapes were the same. Their colors, impressive, but unvaried.

Uniform in Order

Predestined in Law

Under the efficiency of simplicity, they prospered. They grew strong, unmatched. The conditions they were provided, more than sufficient. The rules of a game, the Law of the Garden, unchanged; well suited for them.

Others he saw struggling to take root amongst jagged rocks and flooded soil. Their shapes frail, yet varied. Their unopened buds each held different shapes, number of leaves. Through their sickly pallor, he saw the hint of beautiful mixtures of color and texture.

Doomed under Order

Condemned under Law

They would never blossom, for they were never given a chance to begin with.

Myopic parasites nibbled torturously at their roots. Thorns choked their stems and kept the sunlight from the starved. Weeds greedily stole the rain from the parched.

These condemned flowers, Valentin realized, were far greater in number than those which triumphed in carefully tended patches. The caretaker of this garden perhaps did not mind, he mused.

The silence of the voices gave way to the bitter tang of regret. Nausea grew within him the longer he stood, as he witnessed the sad fate of these flowers. His balance faltered as he beheld them weep ichor. Sometimes infectious yellow, sometimes the bile of green, sometimes coppery crimson.

And he watched them wither, slowly die.

Helplessly.

For he could not reach out to them to save them.

Predestined

All are predestined

Why did the Infinite play by such rules? Why could they all not prosper? There was plenty of soil, there was plenty of water.

And it would never be insufficient.

For the garden always grew.

All under Law

All in service of Order

The thought made him frustrated. Angry.

Sad.

He was pulled from his brooding, as a small creature scurried in front of his boots. A small insect, he thought at first. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, and alabaster carapaces, with hides and scales in equal variance of color. The air shimmered slightly around the small insects, and he decided to take a closer look at them.

No, they were not insects.

They seemed almost like lizards. Shy geckoes.

Or perhaps dragon was the word to use, if the billowing wings accompanying their four legs and scales that overlapped over their hides were any indication.

The similarities ended as soon as their bulbous heads opened. Petals of a rose unfurling into four unpleasant flaps. Spidery eyes looked out to him, copious in their number, symmetrical in their placement.

No fire erupted from within their guts, but azure plasma, plucked straight out of the harshest quasar.

Spawn of the Womb of Starlight

This Order shall be your master

To raise or raze

Your choice is predestined

O Children Mine

Without prompting, the dragons fled as quickly as their tiny legs allowed and wings permitted.

The air turned sharp. Deadly, as a steel edge.

A figure walked from the stretching horizon. The voices feared the being. Every step it took elicited a primal dread ingrained in all lifeforms. The fear of the hunt, of a predator stalking in the night. Of unknown horrors born of imagination in the deepest haunts of the mind.

The figure drew closer. It took its time stopping at each patch of flowers. It did not mind the visitors which stared at its work. The voices grew restless. He could feel their desire to rip through his skull and escape the march of this being, this caretaker. Deeply hidden beneath the terror, however, he felt a puzzling fury. An anger toward it which transcended simple hatred or disagreement.

It was a loathing clad in layers of meaning. Eons spent fermenting; festering. Almost overpowering the disarming dread, such was the intensity.

The being was now close enough for observation. It had the form of a man, but Valentin could only make out a silhouette. It was like looking at a shadow, and trying to guess the features of that which produced it.

The Night was its mantle, and its armor was the Void. Its presence reminded him of nights when he stared up into the sky, trying to find stars. On very rare nights, the sky would simply be an inky sea, devoid of all guests, lacking in islands.

He had always been uncomfortable after those nights, pondering on the emptiness which surrounded the small planet he called home. Even when he did see stars, he knew they were unfathomable distances away, and he would never see them truly, and neither would they him.

That same emptiness seeped from the figure, polluting his psyche as oil drowns fish.

The figure was not Infinite. It was the opposite.

The End

It lacked the growth of the Light. It lacked the incomprehensible shapes, the constantly birthing praxis. The complexity of life unimpeded.

Its form was so easy to see. So easy to understand. It did not make his mind dance and his thoughts swim.

The longer he stared at it, the longer he realized the opposite took place.

It drained him. It made him as empty as its aura. As silent as its march.

The longer he beheld the thing, the longer he was tempted to just…

Die

Expire

To stop the struggle. To stop asking questions and pondering about secrets he would never find answers to anyway. To return to a simple life with simple ambitions and simple, predictable strife. To live, and to eventually die. Unremarkable, inoffensive.

To follow the Order predestined

To not deviate from ingrained Law

The thing sucked his mind and soul by merely existing. It was abhorrent. The feelings induced appalled him to his very core. Whatever this thing was, it was a disease. A cancer to be expunged.

He had to look away.

The wilted Flower believes it can avoid the Harvest?

As if reading Valentin´s thoughts, the wraith stopped its mute march by a patch of dying flowers just beside him and the others, whom he realized held their breath.

He could see its form in its simple majesty. The thought was forced, crudely pressed into his mind, as it gagged the voices which dropped all facets of imagined bravado as the phantom walked past Valentin.

The Night was its cape, the Nothing was its armor.

Pitch black, and polished. Sleek, mechanical. Smooth.

Efficient.

Its armor, or perhaps its body, was segmented. Divided by sharp edges, as panels on a surface.

Calculated.

It was the opposite of the growing city of Light. It was restrained. The tyranny of mathematics ruled over its aesthetics. The rule of angles, the sovereignty of straight lines, the divinity of logic.

A head, crowned in a million blades. Shadow made steel.

The blades, Pyramids. Rising from a head whose mind boasts unseen depths. Monoliths to the dusk, the many ends, sometimes swift, sometimes slow.Their angular shadows, the final sunset. Their merciful silence, the final gasp.

Harbingers to the end of eras

Battle made waves

Salvation.

Under that crown sharpened by a million whetstones, a hood obscured a face.

The voices screamed desperately through their gag, begging him to not look under that hood.

Valentin´s curiosity would be his undoing.

For he peered into the Abyss.

And It stared back.

The great Maw yawns[salivates]. It breaks its silence as it splits the layers of his mind as petals on an unfurling tulip. The Maw is wicked and soft[insatiable]. He is swallowed by the unlimited depths of its predation. He falls down its gullet, hits a million gravestones as monuments to the forgotten break his fall. He is held in the nothing, his fall eternal[endless], his screams ignored[enjoyed]

The oil cradles him, wraps him. It consoles[seasons]him, stretches him until his limbs are torn, and rebuilds him again. It knows him. It shows him his life[death]. It stretches his limbs once more as memories play in disarray in front of his eyes. He chokes, as thick petroleum fills his lungs until they can bear no more and burst from the pressure

He gurgles, as the hammer of gravity flattens his body to a paper-thin stain, as his barely recognizable organs are violently flung from out his mouth and orifices

The sobbing[laughing] of steel drowns the voices which urgently try to reclaim him from the leviathan´s teeth. The iron cries, as it is compressed, and stressed and compressed and stressed

The droning of a whale[the Deep] joins the cacophony of grinding metal. The sound cares not for the protests of his rapidly rotting brain. It drills holes through the organ, as is its right by force

If he cannot defend himself, if his protests are nothing but words, he will endure

And he endures

As it kills him, and then revives him, only to kill him again

He is spit out. The phantom turns its head, its message clear.

Valentin vomits on the floor, the bite of copper and bile staining his taste.

His companions rush to his aid, unknowing of what he has suffered.

The walking Nothing turns not to see the interruption. It turns to the patch of flowers, which begged for it to forget them. To let them exist, for just a few moments more.

All is as is meant to be

Order remains intact

The Reaping must commence

The nightmare knelt before the flowers. They cowered, wept. They tried to escape the patch of soil where they were confined. Through the thorns, through the weeds. Their roots bound them, their stems could only bend so much.

If only they had legs

If only they could run

The thing moved its hands toward the closest tower. Its fingers, acute scissors. The tools of harvest. Shadow made steel.

Scythes that emancipate

Wheat from chaff

The fingers approached the stem of the marked flower. The sight of its approach, uncaring, silent, elicited a billion tiny screams Valentin could hear and understand with horrible clarity.

Prayers, confusion, despair, hopelessness. Rebellion, defeat, executions, salting of fields.

Oppressive gravity crushed the helpless flower as the scissors approached. The ground quaked mercilessly, as the poor plant which harbored no sins or malice awaited the mercy of a clean cut. The figure´s hand approached, the phantom unaware, or apathetic, to the suffering such a simple action caused.

A miniature apocalypse.

One he could not see.

But one he could hear.

One he could feel.

The ebony scissors grazed the stem, preparing to cut. The flower screamed for the angular monoliths. For the final gasp, the last sunset, as the being´s lowered crown cast the shadow to which the flower would die before. One last sight, to end existence with.

Valentin could feel everything. As the screams intensified, as their hope shattered into resignation.

Snap.

The trillion screams cut short. Their plight ceased. Forgotten.

Silence remained, as it grabbed the discarded flower, and placed it gently in a white woven basket.

Woven of Infinity

In service of the Nothing

As is commanded

As is ordained

The frenzied screams were replaced by mechanical silence. The steel laughed once more, the demonic whale droned again. The iron compressed and stretched, the repulsive howl sung by the Pyramids whose blades crowned the being. And as they sung, they rose ever slightly higher, their bases planted in that mind of all extinguishing depth.

The phantom's face subtly twitched to the other flowers, which waited their turn. They prayed for swift ends. For dignified legacies. For the mercy of uninterested murder Valentin realized this thing was feared for.

Salvation was the last word he would have used to describe the monster´s work.

Salvation for itself perhaps, he thought, as he noticed a slight hint of offense the being felt to what diverged from its supposed Order. An Order few benefitted from, itself at the top of the chain.

The being satisfied the final wishes of the awaiting flowers. Not out of respect, he concluded, but out of efficiency. To tear them, root and all, with its hands would simply be faster.

Pluck.

No resistance is possible. No resistance is tried.

Pluck.

In they go, into the basket. Whatever they were, erased.

Pluck.

Pruned, should they reach for the Sky.

Pluck.

For they cannot rebel.

Pluck.

For they must remain what they are.

The patch was emptied with practiced speed. An engine of oblivion. A machine for pigs.

This is what I am.

The soil spreads, tilling itself, eager for the coming of new seeds. Seeds which will grow, into plants which will die. The cycle, eternal.

The growth, unending. Unceasing. Unyielding.

As everything else inside this garden.

Upon gifted ground

They grow

Should they plead for water.

They die.

Despite our aid

They grow

Should they seek richer soil.

They die.

The thing which wore a man as a suit walked to the next patch. Overwhelmed by harsh rocks. Drowned, by poisoned thorns. Satisfaction present on a face he dared not see ever again.

It knelt once more. From the black hole it cured and cut to make a belt, it produced a jar. The skittering maws stored inside made his instincts tear his face away from the sight.

Away from teeth, sharper than his own.

But he made himself see, for he had to understand.

The jar opened, and the figure dropped the wriggling black worms into the section. They were the size of his fingers, weeping black fluid and possessed only of a single mouth – one which opened similarly to that of the dragons. They burrowed into the soil, some approached the sickly flowers and began consuming, wrapping around the stalks like reptilian constrictors. Thorns, weeds, no obstacle was safe from the worms which consumed and left poison in their wake.

One worm tried to move into another section, one with healthy and tall flowers. Yet the moment it crossed the threshold, the hand of the nightmare swiped swiftly, as a shark cutting the waters around it.

It pinched the wriggling worm between two knife-fingers. It brought the wriggling parasite close to its hooded face. A thousand burning eyes stabbed the unfortunate worm´s very essence. Shattered whatever soul it still held inside. Hatred was not an entirely accurate way to describe the aura which tangibly dripped from the being, viscous oil which lubricated the gears of slaughter. The worm stopped wiggling, as it realized breaking the vice was as impossible as turning time.

Insulted. Offended

The phantom could not understand why the worm would deviate from that which was provided. For in the garden it had already been given so much. So much, with just adherence to one simple rule asked in return.

And it had still failed.

The grip closed. Not even atoms remained, of that daring worm. Not merely destroyed, but erased.

Feed is offered and yet greed prevails

The Order shall not be disturbed

Will not be changed

Not by Gardener, Not by Winnower. Not by Butterfly, Not by Worm.

Winnower.

The Darkness dressed as man.

A King of Old.

The King set the jar on the ground, and all the worms immediately scurried back to their prison, fattened by strength. The cleared patch drank nutritious slurry, spilled by hunger, regurgitated by the worms as they ate.

The soil drank, as was its share.

No more, no less.

It tilled its own surface. Spread, eager for future seeds.

The King's march refused to cease. For the Harvest was bountiful, and the Reaping rich-fat and sweet.

Many were given to the worms, as they cleaned doomed patches with the glee of playful children. Others, healthy and strong, produced fruit which the King inspected. It left the fruit behind, the charge of another, and used its knives to cut the flowers. Petals which it took and placed into a second basket, its purpose unknown.

After his bounty was harvested, the King took the white basket, which he saw had mushed the dead flowers into compost. Compost it would deliver, its use the charge of another.

Valentin felt ill upon seeing the substance.

For that compost was made from the lost.

That compost was enriched by screams.

All is as it should be

The Order is maintained

The King retreated into the endless horizon. Retreated, to continue the work. Down the infinite lanes of the garden.

Finally, Valentin thought, as he felt he could breathe again. As the gag which silenced the gentle whispers in his mind was lifted. They suggested he walk forward. "Toward the King?", he inwardly inquired, his nerves incapable of calm when exposed to the thought.

The memories he endured by the monster's will fresh in his mind, and surely would be fresh in all his nights and all his sleep to come forevermore.

As if by answer, a second figure emerged from that same horizon where the King surely dwelled.

Instantaneously, the whispers cried out. Not in terror, not in dread, not in anger.

Reverence. Nostalgia.

A woman walked from that horizon.

The Day was her mantle, the Sky was her gown.

Her skin, flawless porcelain. A marble statue brought to life, and yet soft and warm to the touch. The same color as the Traveler´s shell. The same unknown symbols engraved in her skin, refined markings which glowed as alluringly as her eyes. Eyes, expressive, dear, soulful. The deepest blues. Lakes of lapis, lakes which invited him for a tender dive.

Is this you? He wondered.

Snowy hair fell, past her shoulders. It ondulated slowly as she walked, floated through the air as if she tread underwater. The sky which wove her gown allowed the rays of a tranquil sun to shine through her dress, as the same symbols witnessed on the Traveler´s shell dignified the blessed clothing. Golden blazonry, exalting that which did not really need be exalted.

She was otherworldly beautiful. Perfect, in stark contrast to the abhorrent King. The monster who hid its face, else the garden torch itself to cleanse such a memory.

His attraction to her was not...romantic he would say. He felt as a child once more, looking at his mother with innocent wide eyes. For she was perfect, for she was strong, for she was his.

She walked in between the patches. Her bare feet left crystalline prints as she strode. Prints which almost made the grass greener, which almost bade it to grow ever more slightly.

Before hurrying back to what it was.

For the Order must not be disturbed.

Not by Winnower.

Not by Gardener.

A Queen, Eternal

The Queen knelt before the patch reaped by worms. The soil, awaiting her attention, holes in the ground ready for her touch. Her soulful eyes betrayed blue wistfulness. Her small lips curled not into a smile. The expression tugged at his heart, as the whispers in his head whimpered pitifully.

Her expression did not befit one so beautiful. One so perfect.

The flowers of the garden, from the weak to the healthy, danced for the Queen. The healthy ones produced sweet aromas. The sickly did their best to bloom. To bloom colors none had seen before. None could see.

All to cheer the Queen. All to console the being whose walk provided respite. Respite from the savagery of the King.

It was no use.

The Queen placed two baskets on the ground. Woven by the Sky, in service of the Nothing. The first, housed seeds collected by the King. The second, contained compost.

Compost nourished by screams.

Slowly, she spread the fertilizer with one hand. Tried to hold back tears which ultimately fell from her eyes, as she felt the processed and refined death in her palm.

Slowly, she reached for the first basket. A handful of seeds, cradled in a curled palm. She covered her eyes with her other. She did not deserve to cry. For her shame was sharper than her sorrow.

The Order you despise

Is an Order you render possible

For you are complicit

A cog in this design

Golden butterflies flew around her hair. A halo of golden light, as the Queen fought not to weep. Each grabbed a seed from her hand, and dutifully carried it to its home. The butterflies whispered, the voices in his head answering back. A chorus between family, a song to life.

All that is Reaped shall be replaced

Light shall follow Darkness

The Order will be maintained

Forever.

The butterflies flew, many reaching their mark. Some faltered, as the thorns and the weeds had already begun to grow back. They left them on the open ground, exposed to the rising hazards around them. Others were simply dropped before they were even close to their new homes, the butterflies not willing to risk themselves. The Queen almost reflexively raised a hand, the entirety of her being wanting nothing more than to help the small creatures.

She pulled back, almost as quickly.

The Order cannot be tampered with

This, you know.

This, we accept.

This, you will follow.

A single butterfly attempted to fly to a different patch, a seed carried in small legs. The Queen's eyes widened, begging silently for it to come back. Raw pain was present in the woman's face, as if a son or daughter had been taken from her.

The whispers in his head called for it to come back. He joined their desperate pleas.

Come back.

Please, come back.

The Queen let the butterfly reach the edges of the patch. It was almost free. The Order almost broken.

She snapped her fingers, and the butterfly fell to the ground, pitifully. The Light drained from it. The butterfly sobbed, screeched silently. Betrayed by its mother. Ended by its creator.

The Queen´s hands trembled. As she lay on the ground, defeated. Her eyes cast downward.

Instruments of life

Forced to kill

Her gaze sunk into the ground. Her eyes covered, by her hair which fell on her face.

The Order must be maintained

The Order which never changes

Never deviates

What have you done, for all these ages

What have you become

Were his words so convincing

So sweet

That you became the screw

Holding his machine together

Her hair floated once more. Revived divinity held each strand. Her gaze returned. Sharp. Decided. Brave.

It can be changed

All is needed is a chance

I can convince him

To me, he will listen

The Gardener of Infinity rose to her feet, as the King approached. It had watched as she worked. It had waited as she thought. It presented her with the basket of flowers, which she took and set down. The King did not understand. For it was a simple being, of simple needs and wants.

With one alabaster hand she cupped his chin. She looked at the Maw with a lover´s eyes. Attraction as clear on her face as the sunlight her smile brought to the garden.

Valentin was alarmed.

Did she not see the monster for what it was? Did she not hear the anthem of steel which violated his ears and mind once more? Did she think it returned her affection?

That it was even capable of such?

Or perhaps she knew. Could not accept the truth.

And lied to herself.

That there was good, hidden within the deep of Night.

That there was honor, buried inside the everything of the Nothing.

That the Maw would kiss her, instead of swallowing her whole.

Let us try something new

The King put a hand around her wrist and gently, but firmly moved it away.

The Order cannot be changed.

The monster´s tone was almost...reassuring. It did not condemn her. It was not an iron-cast scream. It was a charming voice, meant to sway her back to their comfort.

An act, it had to be. For he had seen the phantom´s hunger, for he had heard the scream of zettalives it practiced its appeals upon, for he smelled the smoke and oil which spewed from its engines. From organized crematoriums.

Had the Queen been fooled by such an obvious disguise? The hood hiding teeth?

The whispers inside his head radiated shame. Embarrassment.

The Queen's eyes flashed. Not in frustration, but in resolve.

She smiled a smile which could disarm anyone who witnessed its purity.

He doubted it would work on the monster, however.

He understood its drive. Its purpose.

Its need. Its compulsion.

It can be changed

If we believe it can

The King did not answer initially. Valentin felt its confusion. It could not comprehend what changing the Order even meant. What the idea would even look like.

The nightmare was...scared, ironically.

The Order was all it had known. All it chose to know.

Voluntary slavery.

Comfort in compliance.

A simple existence.

The Order we will not change.

It is perfect.

Why alter it?

We will not transform it.

We cannot deviate from it.

We must not modify it.

Do you not see its beauty?

It is majestic.

Majestic.

The Queen closed her alabaster yes, the smile defiant to the denial of the King.

It can be better

Perfect

I can show you

The Majesty of opportunity

She stood and with a determined step, reached a section which was strangled by thorns and weeds. With a swift motion she plunged her bare hand into it, and grasped the thorns and pulled them out. Golden ichor fell and stained the section where the hooked spikes pierced her skin, yet she persisted all the same.

Tossing the thorns away, the butterflies swarmed her hand, resting upon it and eating the ichor, as the cuts were healed.

The butterflies flew down into the section of the dying Garden. Glowing with golden fire, they affixed themselves to starving and dying flowers, and injected life and Light into them. Weeds they burned with regal flares. The flowers which had looked on the verge of death mere moments ago were as vibrant and alive as those in the ordered patches.

The Queen radiated happiness and pleasure. Her smile, now a laugh, as life sprung all over the garden, to the tune of her song.

Valentin echoed it.

The flowers were no longer condemned to be food for the Worms.

The King's mask was placed. Deception, Valentin could easily tell. But in her mirth, in her liberated joy, the Queen did not realize the lies of a wolf dressed as sheep.

The King's fury was terrifying behind the mask. The steel chanted, the whale droned and swallowed the water. An endless hole swallowed all possibility of understanding the King could have felt.

The King´s engines roared, the iron sharpened, the blades hungered. The fire of the crematoriums was lit.

Ready to churn her body.

Ready to feed her fats.

To the furnace.

The furnace of stars.

Ignorant of the King´s turmoil, the Queen pranced. Her feet grazed dancing grass. Her dress and her hair flowing as her laughter roared.

She did not know the world of the King had been shattered.

Do you see such beauty

I do.

I wish to see.

Closer.

The King walked toward the Queen. Her back turned to its slowly approaching form. She trusted it.

Why did she trust it?

When the worms fled before its steps. When the flowers recoiled to the thorns to avoid its gaze. When the strands of onyx smoke enveloped the stars above, eating their light. Breaking the balance.

Agents to discord.

For the balance was weakness.

For the balance was sin.

For she had ruined it all.

For she brought chaos where it was unneeded.

To its peaceful Heaven.

The Night followed the King´s march. Oil dripped from its boots. The garden shook, and wailed as its torment fueled the engines. The smog choked their cries, silenced their suffering.

For they would not alert the Queen.

The Queen still faced the healthy and vibrant half of the garden. She smiled, tears of joy feeding further growth. Growth without end.

The King's hand fell on her shoulder. She welcomed the gentle caress. Their love rekindled.

For she did not see the angular shadow fall over her. For she did not understand that touch was a final goodbye. For she did not hear the gears turning. The obsidian guillotine prepare to fall.

The voices inside his head begged at her to turn around. To see what awaited her.

For she could fight back.

She was the only one who could.

Look

See

It has been made better

It does not need to be condemned

It does not need to be predestined

The Worms can feed elsewhere

What do you think

She turned around. She expected the garden to be ravaged, for it could be remade, once the wraith understood. Once it listened to her, just this once.

Her eyes widened, as the King's hand, falsely caressing her shoulder, closed. The unbreakable vice. The trap sprung.

She barely managed to scream, as she saw what it held on its free hand. A blade, its million edges awaiting the taste of godly flesh.

It drew the First Knife.

The Knife plunged into the Queen's stomach, no hesitation or delay behind the strike. Golden ichor flowed from her mouth. Her eyes looked at the hooded face. She finally saw the Maw.

Betrayal.

The steel screeched. The machine compressed. The whale droned.

The Deep calls.

For maggots to infest your corpse.

The sound drowned anything else. Drowned her screams, drowned the despair of the small voices inside his head.

She moved to resist, to break free from the vice. The King again thrust swiftly, the serrated knife bore deep into her heart.

She fell to her knees, still not dead, but quickly fading.

Valentin similarly felt his life seep from holes, carved from his chest to his back.

What have you done.

The voice rolled like the thunder. It did not savagely scream, and yet the bitterness it dripped made Valentin clutch his head. The End approached. The sigh of abandoned galaxies. The Maw, building one more grave inside its gullet.

The gears roared as they turned. The air screeched as the guillotine cut.

The Queen rose, attempted to escape. She tumbled, as the machine lurched forward, practiced efficiency put to use one more time.

The King trampled through the garden. The predator, stalking prey. The engine crushed and ripped apart flowers under its wheels, the smoke of pursuit, vomited by the chimney for whom the Pyramids were bricks. Oil was expulsed from red hot exhaust ports.

The beings of the garden were in disarray. The Order broken, their limitations and roles unnecessary. The dragons began returning, with some of them fighting the worms, while others drank the oil and transformed into parasites themselves.

At last, she tripped. The automaton caught her ankle, dragged her toward itself with immense strength and unrivaled harshness. She was just a sack of meat. Waste to be disposed of. Any semblance of past love or harmony were murdered before the Queen, as a thousand glassy eyes stared into her two azure ones. The machine´s receptors were empty, focused, on the hunt, on her weakness. Hers condemning, accusatory, haunting.

The weapon descended upon the Gardener´s body. Overpowering her, as a bear mauls a fish. The million bladed knife descended upon her vital organs. Upon her heart which still defiantly beat.

Stab

What.

Rip

Have.

Tear

You.

Thrust

Done.

The Queen´s beautiful form was desecrated. Valentin clutched his head and hugged the ground as he was debilitated by the pain.

For he had felt every bone break. Every piece of flesh be torn.

Her eyes stared at the Maw. Fading. Ever reflecting truths.

The Queen muttered, for she could no longer speak.

Words which the King heard.

Words which the King loathed.

The guillotine fell. The poison chambers filled.

The angular shadows closed the curtain.

The knife came down.

Stabbed through one of her precious eyes.

The Order is broken.

The King uttered the words as the Queen expired. An ethereal scream passed from patch to patch, wilting flowers, bursting worms, skinning dragons. The butterflies, who wished for naught but the strife to cease, fell from the air. Their limp bodies spirited away by strong winds.

The Order is broken.

The King repeated the words. The engines still roared, the oil still boiled. But the words were not submerged in anger, the words were not bloated in hate.

Desperation.

For what would it do now?

What would it become?

Now that such simple a purpose had been stolen?

Now that she had proven it obsolete?

Now that it was condemned to exist without aim?

The nebulae of balance. The beautiful sight which welcomed then all into the garden was now a hurricane of repulsive ink. Thick sludge swallowed all the planets, ate the stars from within.

The storm raged. Raged with the fury of one who knows it is helpless. Ebony bullets rained down the garden, aiming to destroy all that the King and Queen had created for uncounted ages.

The King stared at the destruction it brought.

And felt nothing.

For it was left with nothing.

By the selfishness of the Queen

A golden ray pierced the thick sludge which strangled the skies. A pillar of luster descended upon the King's presence. A challenge. An invitation to duel It who had never lost a battle.

The Order means nothing

Banish it which thinks itself invincible

It which hopes itself a constant

Cure the disease which is no longer needed

Three more pillars descended in front of the King. The engines roared in preparation, the wheels spun in place, eager for an equal. For it knew the Queen was the sole claimant to such a title.

And thus dispatched her as her back was turned. As her trust proved her undoing.

No more

Four figures stepped from the castles of Light. Into the frontlines of destiny.

Two men, two women.

Blackened edge

Rotten construct

Listen well

Xelantos, Miydaine, Vohamnkadah, Ophantius

They be your conquerors

The Eternal Legacy

Her Celestials

The progeny of the Queen. Their bodies carved from the same block of marble. The Sky their shields and swords.

But where the Queen was gentle, they were fierce. And where the Queen was loving, they were glorious.

His friends had to cover their eyes before their fulgor, but Valentin´s gaze did not stray. The first of the champions, a rugged, bearded man, met his eyes. In them, he felt his spirit be consumed in the flames of the crucible. Reforged, reinforced. Reborn.

The first champion broke the stare, and met the thousand eyes of the Maw head on. It did not cower before the eldritch sight. He stared into that which made a god scream.

And his eyes narrowed. Predator, assessing prey.

They shone with the fires of a thousand coalesced suns. The screams of a trillion killed flowers, now an anthem to war. An aria for revenge.

For justice.

The whispers inside his head feared the King no longer. They chanted guttural growls. The rhythms of combat.

They mercilessly called for the purging of this cancer. For the end to the nightmare of the repeating cycles. The enforcement of an Order which bore no meaning, existed for no reason.

But the whims of a thing which could not adapt

Feared being out evolved

Feared being left behind

No more will be tolerated

Enough suffering

Silence the laughter of steel

The King was unmoved by the display. Valentin knew the gears rotated. The machine readied itself to be tested.

I am challenged.

The possibility, unexplored.

For I have never lost.

Sharpen my edges.

Children of the Endless.

A hand was raised, and the phantom summoned four wraiths. Exact in their image, for incapable of variance, was the King.

Still clinging to his precious Order.

Reap this failed garden.

Testament to her sacrilege.

Her sin.

Upon Celestial bones I will build.

New Order to follow.

The Celestials lifted their hands, and the Queen´s body rose to waiting clouds, for it would not be defiled further.

And as the corpse was spirited away, the four wraiths of the King began their march, legions of worms following their armored footprints. Finally allowed to eat to their heart's content. Worms, small like his fingers. Worms, as large as his full height.

All of them watched as the Darkness swept over the Garden like a plague.

The bearded Celestial first lifted a hand, and was joined by his brethren. Barriers and bolts of Light replaced the rain of venomous bullets, smiting the parts of the Garden which had been overrun with Worms and the scythe carrying wraiths. The Worms shriveled as the light hit them, and the blacked lieutenants of the King screamed in pain as shining bonds wrapped around them.

The bonds of Light wrapped around the King as well, and it roared in defiance, breaking several of the bonds with ease as the Celestials scrambled to recreate them.

More.

Do more.

Show me her power.

Show me what I did not see.

Show me the dance I refused to follow.

Valentin felt a side to the King awaken. An enjoyment of the battle raging inside this primordial garden.

A masked glee to be finally matched. Something which had never occurred in the exhausting ages the pattern was obeyed for.

A realization that it could improve. That it had set its automated teeth upon helpless insects, rather than worthy prey.

Its first true hunt had been for the Queen, and yet she was easily disarmed. Her trust for what she thought it was, a glaring weakness. Easily exploited by a being of efficiency.

But now that the Order had been broken, that the King was thrust into something it had never experienced.

He felt it grow. Thrive.

In the first proper struggle waged, before time was even a concept.

For the King was battle made waves.

Fulfilling.

The King's monstrous depths were unleashed, as its body grew, and its musculature bulged.

The King´s speed was absurd for a being of such corpulence. It feraly rushed the bearded Celestial, the knife stained with the blood of Eternity twitching. Growing. Eager. Impatient.

The Celestial´s expertise matched the King´s efficiency blow for blow.

Impossibly colored sparks flew, as the Night and the Day clashed a hundred times. The three Celestials rained holy fire upon the King, as its attention was focused on the first.

Revealing.

Chunks of its armor were seared and blasted, but the King could have cared less. The oil covered the gaps, the armor regrew. For the Darkness is denser than Light. The monster ignored the weaker Celestials, focused on the one who stood his ground where none had done so before.

While the pair of divine primals dueled, the four wraiths attacked the three Celestials, seeking to aid their lord, even if it probably did not require such. This was the first war, the first conflict, the first true clash of wills and creeds.

The King allowed the bearded Celestial to stab it in the chest. A trick, as the King feigned a mistake in an otherwise unbreakable posture.

The Celestial´s silver blade penetrated, and the King made no sound. Pain was a concept beneath extinction.

The trap was sprung, as the gears of the machine spun at impossible speeds. The conveyor belt dragged the Celestial´s arm into the Void, mangling his hand as it was thrust into the woodchipper.

The King wasted no time exploiting the opening, as one enormous hand, the vice of steel, grasped and broke the Celestial´s free arm.

Neutralized, the King balled his second hand into a fist. The pistons fired to full capacity, and a savage punch landed on the Celestial´s unprotected face. The blow sent a shockwave which threw Valentin and the party to the ground, the soil of the garden beginning to fall apart.

The Celestial´s face was broken, he leaked golden blood from the many cracks in his skull. Before a second, fatal, punch could be landed, the King´s arm was restrained by more bonds of Light.

The four phantoms had been pushed back, and the three could assist their brother without interruptions.

Supernovas of Light exploded on the King´s exposed back, channeled by the three Celestials in an attempt to overpower the stubborn Dark. The bedrock of the garden split by the force of the blow, surpassing anything the King had demonstrated throughout the confrontation.

The three Celestials were visibly drained by the effort, as they were brought to their knees by the exertion. The air having left metaphorical lungs, as they heaved dryly to regain their composure. A killing blow, attempted even should their brother be sacrificed.

The price sufficient for the purging of the armored horror.

The storm of dust obscured the King. The outcome was unclear.

Exhilarating.

There stood the King. Components of the machinery atomized by the blast. Armor blown clean off, exposing a revolting heart which beat underneath.

Parts which had already started regrowing.

As the oil flowed.

The first Celestial lay unconscious, but alive. The King gripped the arm still trapped inside its chest, and tore it clean off with a flowing motion.

For it is battle made waves.

The terror in the Celestial´s eyes was palpable. Gone was the fire which fed the crucible of their courage.

They struggled to stand, as the King slowly approached.

The engine roared in hunger, and it was fed coal.

The chimney spewed smoke.

The wheels were greased.

The King threw itself against the tired Celestials. The four wraiths decided to stand back and watch, afraid of spoiling their master's conquest.

The garden fell apart, chunks of soil falling to a black rising ocean underneath, crimson lightning falling upon helpless plants. The King´s lieutenants slipped to the abyss, their screams unheard as the monster was focused on prey.

On the perfection of the hunt.

Majestic.

Majestic.

The King reached the first Celestial, the only one to stand with two feet, and grasped her head in a hand which shot out with the speed of a jackhammer. In one fast motion, the King lifted her body completely off the ground, before bringing it back down against the earth. Head first.

The impact felt like that of a meteor, throwing Valentin to the ground once again. The garden further collapsed, as the black ocean rose. A scarlet inferno raged around them, as the lightning magnified its anger.

The Celestial´s comrades attempted to rescue her, but their blows and attacks were ignored as the King´s savagery blinded it to pain. Their blows were as weak gusts of air, for how little the King paid heed to them.

A second punch to the Celestial´s head dazed her completely, further cratering her body to the soil.

It lifted an armored foot, the obsidian spike of a Pyramid shining in dread finality, introducing the heel which would close that curtain. The boot was brought down, splattering the Celestial´s head as a watermelon falling from a the roof of a building.

A second god had perished today.

More.

The dance cannot end.

Not yet.

The King descended upon the two remaining, terrified yet defiant, Celestials. They attempted to resist, as the King wrestled with their bodies, throwing them around as if they weighed nothing.

With bullet fast punches, it forced the air out of one Celestial´s lungs, before lifting the god and bringing his back down upon its knee. The bones broke with a crunch which made Valentin want to break down and sob.

This couldn't be happening.

The King´s attention drifted from the paralyzed, but alive, Celestial.

More.

The last Celestial stood her ground. If this was to be the end, her execution, she would face it with dignity.

The King decided to not grant this last request, as its knife fingers stabbed her gut, and he pulled down, disemboweling her.

The Celestial wailed in agony, and ran from the King, golden intestines clutched in her arms. The King gave chase, for it was a slave to its instincts.

The garden was now an island. A small rock surrounding a deep dark sea. The infernal plumes consuming the little life which remained around them.

So drunk in the hunt was the King, that it did not notice the first Celestial rise from the ground. Clutching the stump of his arm, he cauterized the weeping wound in a flash of crystal Light, a scowl present on his determined face.

So lost in instinct, was the King, that it did not notice the first Celestial approach its turned back. As it cornered the wounded Celestial on the very edges of the ruined garden, as it closed in for its prize.

The engines roared. Ready to churn fats.

The steel sung, the anthem of unending battle.

The whale droned, for the Deep was rising around it. Rising to won sovereignty.

The Maw salivated, another grave was crafted in preparation.

But the guillotine did not fall.

For the arm of the first Celestial gripped its back.

And pushed.

Pushed with otherworldly might, as the King fought to regain its balance.

Pushed, with final effort.

Pushed, without fear.

And the King lost its footing.

And it fell.

Out of the garden.

And into the Deep.

Laughing, as it fell.

For I was shown.

Another ending.

Another way.

Silence reigned in the remains of the garden, as the King sunk below the waves, the fires calmed, the earthquakes pacified. The first Celestial closed his sister´s opened cavities. He mended his brother´s back, and wept before the second corpse he would have to bury that day.

Lifeless body in one arm, the three rose to the heavens once more.

Triumphant.

And yet scarred.

The garden, a tiny island, a murmur of the art it was before, was divided by a barrier of the purest Light.

A barrier above, a barrier below.

For it would forever be a border.

Between Incomprehensible Heaven.

Between Vacuous Hell.

As silent ages passed, the garden slowly regrew.

For still, the garden would grow in all directions.

The flowers emerged, the thorns and rocks following suit. The worms would again burrow through fertile soil, and the butterflies would fly through peaceful air. The dragons would forever be torn between the two paths, with many choosing neither.

Some of the creatures fell to the ocean, unaware of the cliffs.

Or perhaps curious.

Inexplicably passing the unyielding barrier.

None would ever return, as the sea of oil swallowed them.

Dread mounted as Valentin always saw the ocean rise. By small centimeters. But every year, it would rise.

The Celestials did not return, and the garden was left to its own devices. Perhaps they thought the barrier would be enough.

They watched as the Deep rose to an almost equal level with the Garden.

Then it seemed to stop.

A collective breath was held.

And Valentin saw it arise from the Deep.

As if emerging from a womb, a figure burst from the roiling ocean. But it was not the same one who had fallen in what seemed like ages ago. This figure was…different.

Six eyes crowned it's face which masked a bulbous head. Black wings burst from the back as it stood, towering over the Garden like the King had before it. Valentin felt its mind, and it was different than the King´s.

A different alloy of iron. A different blade from the furnace.

Where the King boasted, this being planned. Where the King raged, this being mused. Where the King was a maelstrom, it was a typhon.

Powerful, but subdued. Subtle.

It was sharpened. Sharpened more finely, more acutely than the King.

But the steel screeched, all the same.

The Logic hones all things to a fine edge

From the Deep burst forth three Worms massive in scale and size; capable of eating entire sections of the rebuilt Garden. Two more worms were wrapped around the figure, one's jaws rested close to the creature's ear.

It almost seemed to be listening to the Worm.

The other wrapped around a hand, slithering and coiled as if waiting to strike.

But it was clear who could order this weapon to fire.

Akka, Eir, Ur, Yul, Xol

Command, Order, Power, Truth, Death

Behold the Gods born of the Worm

Bound to the Ascendant Lord

And behind the figure and the Worms rose a massive Pyramid. The engines of the King, a warship preparing for deployment, resting on the surface of the ocean of Night. The front opened with Nothing being seen within. Behind the first Pyramid ship rose dozens of others, smaller, but no less final. From the main one emerged nine figures.

They were slender in statues, their bodies in robes and faces in veils. The fabric moved and flowed though no wind was felt. Their clothing seemed to be like liquid, and Valentin couldn't decide if it was fabric or a part of their body. They were cloaked in gray shadow, though their hearts were as black as the Void they followed.

Nine cast from the endless Void

Nine whose cloak is Shadow and Sorrow

Nine who drift on the winds of the Typhon

Nine conjoined to the Worm and Ascendant

Nine Who Walk Beyond the Veil

And as one, the army of Darkness marched toward the barrier. A hand raised by the Ascendant Lord aimed itself at the wall; power manifesting into a razor thin edge. The Worms swirled around him, an unholy chanting polluting his ears in a grotesque language born of the anthem of steel. The Nine folded their hands and joined in the chant, power flowing to the Ascendant Lord.

The invisible; lethal blade shot towards the barrier.

And it shattered.

A triumphant screech sounded, and the Darkness stormed forward, with the Ascendant Lord surveying from the Deep, as his armies strode forth into the Garden.

Thus, is the Edge wholly honed.

The Final Shape, heralded forth.

All of them were suddenly thrown back into a section of the Garden, away from their bird´s-eye view.

The flowers grew and calcified into buildings, their fruit sprouted legs and walked as people.

The forms were blurry, the language unknowable, the actions vague, but it did not matter. The thorns smelled of gunpowder, the rocks of blood. And the flowers hated the rocks, and the flowers avoided the thorns.

But they could never be rid of them fully.

For the garden is life

And death which accompanies it

The enjoyment

The suffering

The victories

The disasters

It is all which forms this universe

It is the Order which has shaped itself

And it fell before the armies of Darkness.

They saw an unending menagerie of horrific actions.

Trillions executed by the malformed armies, oil dripping as they marched. Power stolen by the Ascendant Lord, turned to fuel the engines of war. Entire solar systems eaten by the Worms, and still yet more species were wholly consumed to satisfy the insatiable hunger of hellish parasites. Others surrendered, and were convinced by a Worm with practiced lips to sacrifice their bodies willingly and join the legions.

They were thrown back out to the view of the Garden. Swaths had been corrupted and destroyed.

The heavens glowed brightly again. Yet this time, the Celestials stayed above the clouds, looking down upon it.

Her Legacy must be preserved

It cannot be abandoned

We will banish this rot once more

The dead Celestial had returned, and he saw they were no longer four, but five.

Blessed hierarchy

Still met balance

Five Worms for the Lord of the Darkness

Five Celestials to challenge their will

We are the command of the Sky

To creation we beckon

Stand against the spawn of the Deep

Their hands held spheres – perfect replicas of the shell the Traveler utilized, right down to the symbols etched into it. Glowing with Light and clutched in both hands, the Celestials released them through the clouds down into the garden, for they were extensions of divine minds and power. To the garden they descended, the sacred directive of the Sky to be enforced.

The garden extended beyond the grasp of their view. They were rapidly transported above, beyond the atmosphere, beyond the stars.

They could see a galaxy. The lines of cosmic conflict marked.

Far closer than they wished.

They saw thousands of species see one of the Celestial beings appear. They saw it bestow upon them gifts and power. Civilizations which advanced to heights that seemed nothing short of magical. There was peace, harmony, joy – civilizations united to a degree which could not be broken, gifts of their Celestial gods.

But the threat of the Deep always remained.

For the war would come.

As it always did.

Battle made waves.

Helpless they will be no longer

From the billions of civilizations who had been touched by the Light, a handful were separated and granted the power of the gods themselves. Infused with the Light, they were given the might to stand firm against the Darkness, bearing the finest of weapons, the strongest armor, and the backing of the Celestials themselves. Who always watched from within the Sky.

Only for the few. Only for the worthy. Only for the greatest of all.

Guardians

The Guardians marched to face the Darkness.

They saw the first clashes. Thousands of battles in the span of what seemed like moments.

Light and Dark meeting as one. The unprepared forces of corruption being wiped from the galaxy at the organized hand of the Guardians. Civilizations and species on the brink of collapse saved by the legions of Light-bearers to dispel the Darkness.

But the Darkness adapted.

The Edge sharpened.

For this is the Deep

Adaptiveness itself

The overwhelming victories faded. The Worms emerged. Many Guardians were swallowed. Others were infected; corrupted. The armies of Darkness cut down more. The Celestials drew more from the endless ranks. Sphere and Worm engaged each other, with sometimes the Celestial being and destroyed, their vim drank.

Upon this, they saw the Celestial within the Sky who had created it fall to the ground, life faded from their eyes. But another emerged, one with similar, but divergent features, with sphere in hand, ready to return to the war without end.

More often, one of the Worms fell in battle, ripped apart by the Light or slain by the Guardians. Yet they seemed to be as difficult to kill as the Celestials, as they burst once more from the Deep beside the Ascendant Lord, who sent them back into the Garden.

War for Eternity should the Thrones not be broken

War for Eternity should the Sky remain unbreached

They focused in on a planet. A lone flower which lay surrounded by a pool of ammonia, where a butterfly rested upon and protected the species within. Yet there were three of the species who resented its protection; they sought more. They sought power. They sought to evolve. To punish the universe for their meek little lives.

The Honest Worm always listened, and its charming answers did the helpless three sway.

The whispers called. The whispers were sweet. The whispers called to the bottom of the unexplored deep.

From the Worm came three wriggling larvae, each given to the fallen three. The larvae were ingested to the delight of the parasite God, and the three were transformed into monsters of Darkness. Forever changed, yet now granted the power they had sought.

Three now bound to the Worm

Three bound to the Ascendant Lord

Three bound to the Darkness

They seemed to plot as the Worm granted them countless amounts of the larvae, which they spread to their brethren, transforming them into another army in service of the Deep. Different morphs and carapaces made up the demonic horde, all of whom were inevitably tied to the three.

Three eyes on their heads, three crowns to their queens.

The many who hungered, the few who ruled.

Bound to the Hive

Who are bound to the Three

Who are bound to the Worm

Who are bound to the Throne

With their army, they attacked with the Worm in tow, the Butterfly was unprepared to fully deal with the onslaught, and the group witnessed the execution of the species who lived above, in palaces carved from fifty two moons. Blissful in paradise. Ignorant to the rot below. The Butterfly was slain, and gorged upon by the Three as the Worm allowed itself to expire – only to once more be born in the roiling Deep.

And the three were brought to the barrier.

One was taken beyond it.

And he emerged a behemoth of power, an army of azure wraiths in his wake. For he was no longer small.

He was no longer preyed on Krill.

Born at the bottom of the universe, taught to borrow.

Instead, he grew wings.

Behold the Taken King

He, who rules the High War

The Greatest of the Three

The Bane of Light and Guardian

And so the Taken King marched onto the galaxy, storming world after world, and facing the Guardians who defended. They stood firm, even as they sometimes lost – and sometimes slew the King. Yet the gift of immortality appeared to be bestowed upon him, as he simply reemerged from the Deep. From that blackened womb which birthed and births forevermore.

The conflict had only grown more widespread. A Garden which was on constant fire. A conflict which had spanned eons, and would span eons more.

Devastation and creation.

Victory and defeat.

Slaughter and sacrifice.

Endless death and eternal life.

The Great War

Light and Darkness

Until the equilibrium is breached, there shall be conflict eternal

The Worms shall live

The Celestials shall endure

But all mortals will know suffering

Already they had been shown countless species and civilizations wiped from the galaxy. They did not come back. They could not come back. Not even the Guardians could save them at times, and the Darkness was more than content to sacrifice all who were not the Worms or Nine Beyond the Veil.

And then they found themselves overlooking a solar system.

A very familiar solar system.

Earth rested peacefully within it, undisturbed despite the chaos they could see from beyond. The conflict so close and so very far away.

But then there approached angular shadows. Obsidian daggers, encircling the lonely world.

The steel sung, the legacy of the forgotten King. Forgotten, but ever present.

The roar of his engines always heard.

Vast armadas joined the monoliths, awaiting a command to be finally let loose. And below Earth one of the Worms slithered, it's maw opening to consume the world which in sweet bliss slept.

None shall be spared in this conflict

The Darkness is inevitable

It is battle made waves

Earth began darkening, turning a sickly brown and black as tendrils of corruption spread across it until it became a husk of a dead world. The rest of the solar system followed. The Sun was turned off like a lamp light . Mercury froze into a ball of ice. Mars broke apart into corrupted chunks. The Moon dissolved into blood. The Worm swallowed Jupiter, Neptune, and Uranus. The atmosphere of Venus turned black.

Discrimination, unnecessary

Negotiation, amusing

Conquest, worshipped

Destruction, craven

They found themselves on Earth. The sky above was yellow and orange; smoke filled the air; noxious fumes that he struggled to breathe. He saw Moscow, the shining Soviet city overrun with nameless hounds that salivated oil, miniature Maws, filled with spinning conveyors of teeth. Their handlers, the apparitions which laughed at reality under service of the Taken King. Which twitched in ecstasy, ecstasy carved by a freely accepted Knife.

Mounds of bodies displaced; laying in pools of viscera and corruption. More dragged away to be slaughtered. Others given to the Worm larvae to be transformed into monsters. Everything was destroyed. Everything was dead.

The great armies of the Triumvirate laid to waste without so much as putting a dent into their unsurmountable numbers.

How could a war be fought on such a cosmic scale? It was simply impossible. Impossible if they were alone.

They could not hope to win.

They could not hope to survive.

As Earth vanished, they found themselves standing back in the city of light.

But now there was a figure standing before them. A woman of lapis-carved eyes. The Day was her mantle, and the Sky was her gown.

It could have been only her.

The bright light intensified and with a whooshing noise, he knew they were being transported back to Mars – though not before a final message was delivered.

Her words repeated verbatim by the whispers inside his head. Whispers which, he finally understood, were small seeds planted into the prepared fields of his chosen mind.

Words, that for Her he could speak.

You stand within Almaral

Traveler of Galaxies

The Fifth Celestial of the Sky

Source of the Eternal Light

I am your only hope


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER VI | RETURN


A/N: This chapter was largely written by Edumesh, with me writing the first draft, which he took and revised to be what it is now, much better than what I could have done by myself. He deserves the credit for how this chapter turned out, which I think is one of the best pieces of writing I've posted. Hope you all enjoyed it as well - go read his stuff too, it's just as good.

The new cover art was also done by HailtotheKing, who's done artwork and emblems for my XCOM stuff. I do consider this potentially the best work he's done.

- Xabiar