"piecing together a different life"
She sat by the fire while the others slept-
a pup curled up by its master's side
-still ill-at-ease, still incensed by Brom's choice to take the whelp in, by the sheer difference and distance to each and every one of them. It was maddening. Exhausting. Infuriating. All these things she couldn't-
minds touching, unity formed
-quite shake. The fire had long since burned down to embers, but the night chill failed to bother her. She was beyond creature discomforts. Beyond-
they taste the fruits of slain minds together
-petty distractions. Or so she told herself.
Not for the first time the notion of slitting each human throat passed her mind, that she might flee with a dragon in hand, but no no no, that wasn't her, why was she thinking that? Why... why?
breathing in, breathing out. synchronized.
she
lost
herself
Formora blinked, surprised to find herself on her feet, aghast to realize her blade was drawn. What? When had that happened? She looked down and saw Eragon's sleeping face-
a harmony found only in the hunt
she
became
part
of
the-
She staggered. Something roared in her ears, but when she looked around all was calm. Undisturbed. Blade still in hand. With a panic she sheathed it, wondering what was happening to her-
And the sky tore apart.
Her eyes darted up. At first it looked like starlight swimming in the black, but then... it grew. And grew. And grew. A mass of incomprehensible power, tearing through the heavens. The sound reached them not long after, ripping through the forest and crashing down around them like thunder. Each and every animal of the woods awakened, keening with fear. Her comapnions stirred on the spot, jumping with fright only to behold the widening sky-wound with growing horror.
In time it settled. As large and permanent as the moon itself, inch by inch crawling across the sky. It was-
"Ye gods," Brom gasped. "What is that?"
a howling
"Howling," Formora said, the words coming unbidden
He looked at her, but not for long. She didn't notice. She didn't notice anything - because an eye opened and a pale figure flung their arms wide-
A UNITY
JOIN US
When next she came to, daylight showered over everything. Formora blinked and looked to the sky - and gave a start as she saw it still. The Howling hung there, pitted against the blue, like the jaws of a shark on the verge of tearing into unsuspecting prey.
"-an't chance it," Brom said, leading his horse at the forefront of their group. "There's too many soldiers in the field."
"But we came all this way!" Eragon argued.
Formora looked around, still in shock. Murtagh rode beside her, while Saphira took up the rear, padding along with her head held low. What.
What?!
"We'll be safer south," she said- no, not she, this was her voice but they weren't her words. "We can always come back."
Eragon groaned. "But-"
"I'm not staying here," Murtagh said roughly. "Not while that thing's still looking down at me."
WON'T ESCAPE IT. THE HOWLING SEES ALL. DEFIANCE TO THE END, PALTRY AS IT IS. A BLESSING FROM THE BLIND.
Who was that-
the
eye
opens
she
falls
Someone laughed. A joke had been made. She laughed with them. And cried out, unheard. The pale figure stood on the edge of her vision, wearing robes of her own dead house, a crown of flowers framed around
the
eye
she
screams
She looked into someone's eyes. Brom's. They sway. He smiled.
and
the
the
eye
grows
"Where are we going?" Eragon asked.
Brom answered him. Formora didn't hear what was said; she caught Murtagh's shoulder and when he turned to confront her he blinked
stopped
the eye
embraced
I don't understand, Saphira grumbled. We should be far enough!
"The odds are high the king's men found our tracks," Formora lied. No, not her, this wasn't her lie she's not speaking someone has her tongue someone has her mind someone-
the
eye
lied
The dead found them. Scorn, circling all around. Their rot offended her senses. Eragon tried to raise alarm but Brom lookedlookedlooked and he fell silent. In accord. One of many. Of the great concert, ten thousand strong.
Saphira roared. Swiped her claws. Slammed her tail. Screamed at them. The dead shackled her. Singing. Swaying. Pale eyes bright with the all-goblet.
Unity
Formora saw a familiar figure, taller than two Kull stacked on top of one another. A corpse lashed to its warhelm. Flail hanging from skinless hands. It leaned down to take in her scent.
"Piiiiirlaaaaks fffflllaaaay," it gurgled past pus-stained teeth. Its claw found her chest, tapping over her beating heart. "Yyyyou ffflay. Alllllll fffflay... fffforrr fffatherrr. Ffffor Shelbth."
"For Shelbth," the thing wearing her mind like a cloak said. "For us."
for
us
And the pale one-eyed man smiled. FOR US, he whispered in a voice both too high and too low, spawned from a hundred different throats. TOGETHER
There was no awakening after that, but awareness remained. Here and there, sprinkled through the haunting experience of BECOMING. Like drowning in the rapids, only catching precious breaths here and there.
When next she was released, it wasn't in her body, nor in the world she called home. Chaos sprawled around her like an ocean. Memories flashed before her, none of them her own. Formora lived, died, a thousand times over - and it wasn't enough.
It wanted her to understand. To truly
become
She is Tertian. Primary-Expulsor of the NeoLex. Anointed by the Angel, raised from server platform to oversee a realspace world. She proved her aptitude by way of ten trillion simulations, consuming her brother and sister codes until she alone reigned dominant.
She forges weapons, both living and dormant. She watches battles, studies wars, commits the enemy to memory. She crafts their unmaking.
But one day she finds a curiosity. An enemy clad in flesh operating under the efficiency of machines. The results are a forgone conclusion. They are exterminated, their biomatter consumed in the furnaces, their world harvested. The Great Fleet orders an advance and so the New Lexiphage moves on.
They find the same foe in a new star cluster. It wears different flesh but it is the same. Nonetheless they are annihilated.
They find it again in the belly of a gas giant, huddled in ancient diving stations. It occupies would-be corpses, forced to cannibalize itself to perpetuate its own survival. The combat platforms hunt each and every specimen, but the last looks into the lens-
And it smiles. Eye unfurling in the moments before its ashes scatter across the command deck.
She tries to forget. Tries to move on. She cannot. The eye lingers. It grows. It becomes. It-
Is her.
Tertian, once Primary-Expulsor, turns her world into a shrine. By the time the Lexiphage, furious it has gone without new weapons, falls upon her for her sacrilege, she has already sent eye-laden probes to the far stars.
She is Layashum. She is Pure in the land of Plague. Sinuous in the nation of bloat. Clear of vision in the city of the blind. She holds her twelve hands high - and the white orb settles into her grasp, tickling her dreams.
She is the first to make the pilgrimage. First to sup of god's ambrosia - and first to return to herald its mercy.
They crown her queen of the blistered desert.
Together, with great effort, they take to the mountains. To the seas. To the skies. Through the passing centuries they know not a day of suffering, their soft skins clean of infirmity and age. With a sceptre in hand and jewelry dangling from her moistened head, she once more takes the first step, this time onto another world. Their own moon.
There, she finds ruins. An impact crater originally, built up by long-rusted androidics. The sickened used to communicate with them through flashes of light, but history has killed all who remember. She ventures deeper, entranced with wonder as she passes pillars, sculptures, machines unlike any she has ever seen before. At the deepest she finds what remains of the ship that brought them here - a piece of hull, scrawled with a single entrancing shape.
An eye.
When she returns home she does not do so alone. By the time she has shown the rest of her people the truth, the white orb has already departed. She watches it take leave with longing.
They will build more ships. Ships fit to travel to new worlds. Each will fly the same flag: the eye of enlightenment.
She is Korello. She was once the champion of the garrison arenas. Now she is all that's left. The athenaeum, the library world, is no longer theirs. Something within the mantle-deep archives has broken free.
She wanders the blasted sands where her ancestors made battle with the wretched Hive. She passes the blackened hulls of tanks laid low by ogres, the empty suits of armour torn open by knightly cleavers, the pits of still-burning soulfire where once witches had sacrificed captives by the dozens. The war was hard-fought, the victory coming at great cost. And now it was all for naught.
Her throat is dry. Her belly aches, even for the rancid whale-flesh they used to call rations. She doesn't stop, doesn't hunt; everything that lives could be part of it. The thing that killed her legion, turned their minds inside out. She's only alive because she was with a Flayer when it happened. The Psion's screams convinced her to run.
And for weeks she hadn't stopped.
She can still see them on the edge of her vision. Her old comrades. Some of the prisoners they used to guard. The beasts of the war-torn plains. Everything. Shambling after her. Smiling. Arms wide. Calling her name.
By the time her legs give out, she tries to brain herself on the fossilized remains of a Hive monstrosity. She's not quick enough; their hands, gentle but firm, drag her away. Into the horde. Into it. They whisper to her, they force her eyes open and they look-
And she rises. Smiling. Happy to be part of the family.
She is Toryc. She is a pilot of the Soaring Sindû. Proud to fly, proud to serve, proud to send the Cabal scurrying back to their high walls and gun-shelled worlds with their tails between their legs. When the call comes, she answers. Always. The beaus of the coreward cities love her for it. Her sweethearts, scattered across the spinward marches, send her off with kisses to the cheek and letters of heartfelt love. She packs them under her flight-jacket against her breast, so that they remain close to her seven-chambered heart.
She joins the hunting expedition aboard a proven stealth-runner, designed to warp in and send their fighters screaming along the Cabal flanks. The enemy always fall for it - the abrupt ambush, the long chase, the shrieking battle waged in the maelstrom of solar storms. They're stubborn and geared for brutal wars with other species, not this long-legged bird-chase; it's a wonder they haven't already cut their losses.
But this time is different. The warships that arrive bear not the colours of the Emperor or those of the new Ghost Primus, but the mark of a single curious eye.
"We come unarmed," they call out. Sensors read their weapon systems as inactive. That's a first. "Please. We come to parley, that we might understand each other."
Toryc scoffs but the stealth-runner's captain, a by-the-books navalist, accepts with honour and grace. Dignitaries board the ship, flanked by soldiers. They find a warm welcome. They return. That's it. The Cabal depart in peace and Toryc finds herself missing the rush of battle, but she supposes this is a good thing. Maybe the empire will stop harvesting their worlds.
Later, much later, the stealth-runner summons each pilot to the bridge by name. Toryc finds it odd, but maybe they want to debrief the crew on an individual basis. Yet no one comes back. When it's her turn, she hides her nervousness with a cocky grin and an exaggerated swagger, the mark of any veteran pilot.
The captain's waiting for her. Along with his officers. Along with her friends, even her wing-mates. They smile. Their eyes open.
And she joins them. Waiting for the next crewmember to be called up.
She is Brachnos. A hunter. A chieftain. She took the position from her father after ripping his head off with her jaws. She rules viciously, driving her pack to greater glories. The Erechaani sell their services abroad because common conflict with their own kind has proven boring and predictable.
Sometimes the Cabal take them up, dress them as auxiliaries and send them roaring into the ranks of the Hive. Sometimes the Sindû tip them off on the locations of under-defended imperial colonies. Once, they even joined a coven dedicated to War Itself, when Brachnos took a Knight as her consort. She ended up killing him too when he tried to force a Worm in her belly. She doesn't do it for gods. Doesn't do it for money either, or even the thrill. She just wants to eat - and alien flesh is most delectable indeed. It's all about the flavour, expanding one's palate. To a species with no eyes and limited hearing, it's as close as they can get to self-expression. And to the horde she calls a pack, she is an artist. They blaze a blood-soaked trail across the stars, sampling anything and everything they can get their teeth on.
On one world, occupied by some tiny species who used to enjoy Imperial protection before their tithes ran out, she listens to their babbling pleas for mercy, hunting for information. It's a bit of a novelty, really; meat is supposed to be enjoyed and the only thing drawing it out does for her is compound her hunger. That said, she's learned to develop patience. Sometimes prey exposes more of its own kind if it believes it will survive as a result.
So she listens through a captive Psion translator she plans on consuming when the world-harvest is finished, and her quills perk up when the meat-to-be stammers about a ship. She presses for a location, gets it, then bites the speaker in half. She loves how fear changes the flavour. In her experience, a healthy dose of adrenaline spices blood just right.
Later, when they're done with whatever-the-hell they called the townstead, she takes her inner circle and the Psion to the crash-site. The Psion describes it as small, grey, shaped like a bullet. There's a symbol on the hull but the heat of re-entry has scrubbed most of it out. But the Psion says there's something inside. Something alive.
They tear the hull open, search until they find the cryo-pod and she smashes the glass with a single mighty blow. The thing inside sits up, confused and weary, but she hears it say something. She doesn't care at this point, she's still hungry, so Brachnos drags it out and she rips apart, tearing through bone and gristle. It tastes odd. Like a desert. But it's different, exotic, and that's all that matters.
Only now her Psion's being awfully quiet. Maybe it realises it won't survive the solar cycle. Or maybe-
It's mind touches her own. Brachnos growls; she hates this. She has the mental fortitude to fend it off but it's not like a real fight. There's no substance to it. She catches its neck in her hand and she squeezes until its head pops off and she laughs-
And she turns back to her first meal. She has to get more that desert-taste. Has to commit it to memory. Has to... open her eyes.
And smile.
Her name is Atriis. She is a mason. She is alone, because her partner is dead and it's taboo to find another. She is exiled to the edges of society. She aches to join in concert again but she is rebuked again and again until she understands her place.
Now she is dying. All because she couldn't stomach the loneliness.
Her home neighbours the wilds. She always considered it beautiful - the way the sun sets on the shore, the way the kelp forests sway in the wind, the way the grazers drag themselves up from the water's edge to nibble on fresh-hatched sponges. It's her only solace. Was her only solace. Only last month she heard the first howls - mind-wolves. They're a rare sound and a rarer sight. Most were either dead or bred to serve as trophies to Y-goblet ministers. Royal warbeasts, they're called in the cities. Fierce, proud creatures of startling intelligence.
Of course news of a wild pack brought hunters. It always would, but luckily the first to arrive at her doorstep were those officially granted the rights by the local deacons. Poachers never boded well. When she opened the door she was shocked to feel the touch of another's mind, but not so surprised by the disgust they feel for her, though they tried to hide it. When they asked if she's heard anything, she pointed to where the howling came from. That's all they wanted to hear and so with hard eyes they broke concert and left her behind without so much as a second look.
That night she heard more howling. Then the scream - of the hunters. When she roused to investigate, arming herself with a mind-bow, she found a scene of incomparable violence just beyond the ridge. A warbeast, huge and violet, lay strewn across the ground with its belly open. The hunters surround it, just as dead. Scattered all around are the bodies of pups crushed in the struggle. They must have found the den first. Must have driven the parent to a frenzy.
Atriis made to leave. This wasn't her place to be. Only, a cry stopped her in her tracks. She looked and looked, turning the place upside down until she found it: a plump little pup, whining with fear. It saw her, she saw it - and the desperation for a connection, combined with a need to assuage its terror, made her extend her thoughts to wrap around it like a blanket.
She carried it home, nestled against her chest. She cared for it. Fed it from her own hand. Gave it a name - the very same as her old partner, lost to tragedy. There was no acclimating process; it trusted implicitly her on the spot. Their thoughts mingled, a concert joined, and she saw the world through fresh eyes.
For a time, brief as it was, she believed she could be happy.
Poachers, following the trail of licensed hunters, broke down the door. They dragged her out of bed, beat her bloody, flayed her mind open until her thoughts betrayed the pup's location, then they seized it and made to leave. It squirmed. It cried for her. She reached back, fingers turning to claws, eye forming a blade-
And one of them ran her through.
So now she lay dying. A howl rips through the house. Bodies drop to the floor. A snout, small and wet, presses against her cheek. It's alright, she says, speaking to its mind. The pain is fading. The world was fading. Everything is fading. All except him. Her last remaining friend. You'll be alright.
It whimpers. It cannot speak. It cannot understand. Refuses to. Refuses to let her go. Refuses to accept.
The last thing she sees is the flash of its begging eyes and the curve of its opening mouth, so much like an alien smile.
My precious little Shelbth, she thinks, in the moment before his hungering eye takes her
Her name is Shelbth.
She will never be alone again.
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!
