The World Maker Parable

by Luke Tarzian

  Yora nodded wearily.

  Djema took her hands. "You're trembling. Gods, what did this thing do to you?"

  "I wish I knew." So many lucid dreams. An endless string of phantasmagoria stacked within each other. Was this another one? "This is going to sound crazy, but...I don't even know if I'm dreaming or awake right now, Djema."

  Djema pulled her into a firm embrace. "You are most certainly awake right now."

  "That sounds like something a player in a dream would say," whispered Yora. "Something I would make them say to maintain the illusion of truth." She shuddered. "So many false realities..."

  "Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" Djema asked. "Any of the other Ravens?"

  "No." Yora knew by look on Djema’s face she should have told her, should have told Varésh. They were the keepers and guardians of Jémoon. If they were to fall then Jémoon would be lost to the wild Dusk.

  "You need to. Today," said Djema. "Now, even. The wild Dusk is growing stronger, hungrier, and if even one of us is compromised it could very well spell the end of Jémoon." Her expression softened; her white eyes were glossy. "We have lost so much already."

  So many cities, towns, and villages, devoured by the wild Dusk. Yora had lost track of the death toll. Worst of all was the fact she and the rest of the Ravens still had yet to uncover just how the Dusk had gone rogue. For centuries they had kept it tempered without issue, and for centuries they had used the converse powers of Dusk and Dawn to shape the land of Jémoon. What had gone wrong?

  "Are you able to fly?" Djema asked, unfurling her wings.

  Yora’s own ached horribly. She could barely keep them furled. "I doubt it."

  "I suppose a walk might help." Djema took her hand and they started through the barren streets of Banerowos. Even now the emptiness was eerie; only months ago the streets had been routinely filled with people going about their days. Now they all kept to their homes and the relative safety provided by their wards. Their fear was palpable and it broke Yora’s heart, especially because she felt, knew she was partly responsible. What kind of Raven was she if should could not help her brethren protect their people from the encroaching end?

  "It's so easy to forget how beautiful this place is," Djema murmured. "The cost of fighting to survive, I suppose. I'm scared, Yora. Things are getting worse. I know you've noticed."

  Yora had, but for the life of her could not remember how they had gotten worse. It was hard to keep track of it all when she could barely keep track of herself.

  "And yet the struggle perseveres."

  Yora went cold at the voice in her head. It was the very same she had heard in her dream.

  "What do you fear? Why not relent?" it hissed. "Why not let the veil part?"

  You aren't real, Yora thought.

  The voice chuckled. "Aren't I? I am infinite. Reliably and consistently present."

  Yora swallowed. Am I going mad?

  “A sane question." Yora couldn't tell if the voice was serious or if it was mocking her. "What do you think?"

  I think, Yora replied, I understand absolutely nothing anymore.

  "Sometimes we need to start from scratch in order to fully comprehend what we are dealing with," it said. "As you have heard so many times before, dreams are sometimes more than dreams. There is truth to be found in madness. And regardless of whatever opinions of me you have already formed, know I am here to help you. We are, after all, twins of a sort."

  Somehow that put Yora at ease. Not completely, but enough she could focus on the spires of the Raven's Perch rising up in the distant center of Banerowos. She let go of Djema’s hand and rolled her shoulders. She stretched her wings, painful as it was, and gave a great flap. The streets grew smaller with every passing second as she ascended, Djema following in her wake as they soared over Banerowos and made for the Perch.

  "You should have informed us immediately," said Varésh. His eyes flashed angrily in the sunlight pouring into the chamber. "We can ill afford to be compromised when the perseverance of Jémoon depends upon us."

  Yora made no attempt to argue. He was right.

  "Did you know of this?" Varésh asked Djema.

  "Not until earlier today," she said. "Have we found any trace of whatever came out of Hang-Dead Forest? Perhaps it might be the key curing Yora’s ailment."

  "No. Orjem has yet to return," said Varésh, "and that could mean anything."

  Yora wasn't even aware Orjem had left. "Where did he go?"

  Varésh and Djema frowned.

  "The lands surrounding the forest," Varésh said. "You were present when he left. You suggested we send a party to investigate the ruins at its center."

  "Perhaps we should send another to search for Orjem," Yora said. Her flesh had turned to goosepimples at Varésh's revelation. "Or maybe..." She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Is there anything else I should know? Anything I might have forgotten?"

  Djema and Varésh looked at each other.

  "Why flee?"

  The sunlight went silent.

  "What do you fear?"

  Their flesh paled and cracked, peeled away to reveal mottlings of Dusk.

  “Te Mirkvahíl!"

  Yora screamed. She turned and leapt from the chamber window, taking flight over the Dusk-constricted corpse of Banerowos. Tendrils and tentacles of shadow felled the once majestic city, turned its streets black and devoured every bit of illumination for as far as Yora could see.

  “Te Mirkvahíl.” The voice was solid, near—it had escaped her mind. Her echo rose up to meet her. She gripped Yora by the throat and they hurtled toward the streets. “WHAT. DO. YOU. FEAR?”

  Rhona was alone beneath the oak tree. It was night and the stars were asleep; the moon too refused to shine.

  “And here we are.” Her echo manifested in a swirl of smoke. “Again. You cannot flee forever. Your vultures will inevitably prevail. You will discover the truth buried in all of this madness. Trust me—I have seen it many times before.” It knelt and looked Rhona in the eyes. “Hell is a place of our own making. If you continue down this path, you'll not come out alive.”

  Tears trickled down Rhona's cheeks. "You think I want this? To be stuck in these dreams, these horrible falsities?"

  Her echo smiled sadly. “If you didn't, you would have let the truth find you. But instead you run. Run as you have run for years, dreaming your dreams, taking name after name. Part of it is fear, part of it is guilt, shame. But all of it, Te Mirkvahíl? All of it is self-inflicted penance.”

  "For what?" Rhona asked. "What could I have done to wish this…this madness on myself?"

  Her echo stood and offered its hand. “Why not stand and see?”

  A white portal swirled into existence several yards from the tree. Through it Rhona saw herself in the Bone Garden, that thing leering over her like—

  "The Vulture," she whispered, taking her echo's hand.

  “Indeed,” her echo said.

  It locked eyes with her again. Rhona felt cold, sick like she never had before. She started for the portal.

  “Wake up,” a distant voice said. “Wake up.”

  “Wake up.”

  “Wake up.”

  WAKE. UP!

  You wake, now, wide-eyed, ragged-winged and filched of light. What a sorry creature at my feet. A flightless bird, an introspective liar. A glutton for eternal penance. Lo, she whimpers. Lo, she shuts her eyes to the truth—the woebegotten land beneath the tower high. Lo, the Phoenix Mirkvahíl whispers:

  "Oh gods…what have I done?"

  Perception is fickle, dangerously so. Often times we see things as we wish they were; we see ourselves as something we are not. We dream to run from what we fear—but the truth is never far behind. The guilt will always call you back. Welcome, Mirkvahíl, to the ruin of your world.

  10

  Luminíl’s Lament

  Mirkvahíl pushed herself to stand; she could not. The atrophy kept her weighted to the ground, to the weathered stone atop the pinna
cle of Banerowos, what was left of it at least. Before her stood Luminíl, flesh cracked and ruined as had been the case for Djen and Mother Woe, for Djorev and Djema. Mirkvahíl knew this was real. She knew she was finally awake, Luminíl's words echoing in her mind like a throng of buzzing flies.

  "Look at you, Mirkvahíl." Luminíl's voice was bereft of its previous otherworldly depth. She knelt before Mirkvahíl, boring into her with a cold white stare, strands of platinum hair falling out from behind her ears. "Look at what you've done."

  Mirkvahíl craned her neck as best she could. Banerowos was little more than a corpse of stone and snow, an amalgamation of every city she had seen in dreams. Somewhere north of here stood Hang-Dead Forest and the myriad murdered souls for whom she was to blame.

  "Power corrupts," Luminíl said. "That is the way of it."

  A ragged sigh escaped Mirkvahíl. "Parable." She held out a trembling, upturned palm. "This is what you meant when I met you as Mother Woe." Tears dripped down her cheeks. "My story, my existence..."

  Luminíl nodded. Thus far she was less monstrous than she had been in Mirkvahíl’s myriad dreams, both in mannerisms and appearance. There was a softness to her, a sadness, and it pained Mirkvahíl tremendously.

  "I wonder how much of it all you truly remember," Luminíl said. "The Fall, and everything from which it grew. I'd venture little judging from your labyrinthine dreams. At the very least, some, though horrendously dissected and distorted."

  She brushed a cold hand across Mirkvahíl's cheek, lingering for a half second before she pulled away. "Would that I could I would rewrite history and change this all." Her expression darkened. "I would change much."

  Luminíl's words were calm, measured, but Mirkvahíl knew what the Vulture meant, and who was she to argue? She had done horrible things to Luminíl and her acolytes. "As would I," she whispered. She expected no sympathy from Luminíl. It just felt like the proper thing to say.

  "I'm sorry." As did that.

  "An apology…" Luminíl smiled wryly. "Were I you, I too would say the same, but expressed regret for your atrocities bears little weight a century and a half into ruin. Apologies will not remake the world. Apologies will not bring back the dead, nor will they mend my wounds."

  Luminíl stood, and Mirkvahíl pushed herself to do the same a second time. She rose to her full height and stumbled forward into Luminíl like a newborn foal. The Vulture caught her, held her in her arms. For a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. For a moment, holding Luminíl and being held by her felt like a dream from which Mirkvahíl didn't want to wake. She clung to Luminíl, but the Vulture pulled away and Mirkvahíl fell to her knees, choking back tears.

  "You'll gain no sympathy from me," said Luminíl. "You shame yourself, Mirkvahíl. Weeping and wallowing as if you've earned your tears." Shadow surged around her, enveloping Luminíl, shaping her into a lithe and monstrous silhouette with tattered wings and a glowing orb where once her face had been.

  “I should end you,” Luminíl hissed. In a twist of smoke she was before Mirkvahíl, taloned hand gripping her throat tight. “I should annihilate you for what you did to me, to Banerowos and Jémoon. I loved you more than anything—and you infected me, imprisoned me, and left me to rot. You destroyed everything.”

  Mirkvahíl clawed at Luminíl but the Vulture's grip held strong.

  “I need you to see. I need you to remember, Mirkvahíl. I need you to remember as I rip your soul asunder. Hell is a place of one's own making, and I will send you back to walk yours for as long as you exist. No matter how many realities you dream, no matter how many different names you take, the guilt will always find you.”

  Mirkvahíl's vision waned. Planes of existence fluctuated manically.

  “Abandon hope…”

  Trees.

  So many trees.

  They whisper murderously.

  Mirkvahíl shrieked.

  So many trees. They call to you, whispering songs of yesteryears.

  Rain. The heavens weep as you walk.

  Tears touch your cheeks. Fear and desperation permeate your soul.

  For Banerowos, you think. For all Jémoon and Harmony.

  It pains you more than anything, that thought—but the worst is yet to come. So you walk and you listen to songs of the trees, listen to the madness pushing you along. Your illum showed you darkness not yet born. Your dreams of late serve only to cement your fear of encroaching desolation. They bring you here, to your favorite tree, the Lost Tree, to the girl beneath the tree.

  I smile.

  Illum leaked from Mirkvahíl. Through her flesh, through every orifice as Luminíl tugged ravenously on her soul, on her sanity, on her tether to this plane. She kicked feebly at the Vulture, cried out louder than her strength should have allowed.

  “Relent, Mirkvahíl,

  for I am the way into woe,

  the way into the labyrinth eternal,

  the way into Hell.

  As Hang-Dead Forest whispered long ago,

  abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

  I take you in my arms, Mirkvahíl, as you join me beneath the tree. It has been a week since last I felt your touch. Tending to this world we three created takes its toll. You smell of honey and vanilla as you always do.

  You kiss me.

  I melt.

  You pull away. Fear is present in your pitch-black eyes, in the galaxies they hold. I touch your cheek, you pull away. The forest sings and you furl your wings about yourself, a barricade, a barrier between your flesh and mine.

  "Mirkvahíl?" I approach you, and I fall.

  You stand your ground.

  The sky darkens and the forest wilts. It smells so horribly of rot. I reek so wretchedly of rot.

  "What...did you...? What is happening to me?"

  You stand unsullied in a barrier of light, crying softly. "I had to, dearest Luminíl. For the good of Harmony."

  I retch, pull my knees to my chest and spew agony across dead grass. "What...what...?"

  Blood pooled beneath Mirkvahíl, streamed from myriad punctures in her flesh, from the corners of her mouth. "G...Gods..." she half-whimpered, half-gurgled. "Please..."

  Mirkvahíl felt a snap so painful and profound she could not scream.

  Luminíl gave a great tug, and from the depths of Mirkvahíl produced the brilliant, six-winged silhouette that was her truest form—the Phoenix. It screeched desperately, its luminescence waning, devoured by Luminíl's rage.

  “You took this from me,” Luminíl said. “That evening in the forest. Took my temperance for your own because your energy was running wild. You turned me into this! I became the Vulture when this fate was yours to face. I would have helped you. I would have done anything to keep you safe…"

  Luminíl shrieked and drew the mirkúr Phoenix into herself. Her monstrousness dissolved and she was once more a woman cloaked and trembling. She knelt at Mirkvahíl's side. Tears fell freely.

  "I should have never loved you," she whimpered. "I should have never..."

  She sobbed uncontrollably into Mirkvahíl's bloodied chest.

  You bring my unconscious body to Banerowos, to Alerion—the false Alerion. You erect my prison as I sleep, the pair of you plotting falsities in the name of unity, of utopia. Power is seductive. Fear feeds logic to the wolves, and madness runs amok.

  You war with those who would oppose you.

  You murder those who learn your lies.

  Sonja frees me from my cage. You murder her.

  I murder you and thus the cycle starts.

  You dream your dreams, you take your names, but that voice inside your head does not relent. Subconsciously you know—you cannot run forever. The guilt will always call you back.

  Luminíl pulled away from Mirkvahíl. "You made me this," she whispered. "Because of you I wear a monstrous form, but do you know what? You are the only monster here. Sometimes the most beautiful things are the most horrible—and what an eldritch thing you are, Mirkvahíl. What an ugly soul you have."


  Luminíl stood. "I do not possess foresight, but my instincts tell me somehow, somewhere, in another life, we two shall meet again. But until then, may your Hell be horrible, and may your guilt devour you from the inside out."

  She turned from Mirkvahíl,

  strode to the edge of the tower,

  and leapt.

  11

  Where the Sun is Silent

  Banerowos was dead. Varésh knew in his mind and heart the great city had fallen years ago, but to see it once more for the corpse it was pained him terribly. Little more than snow-dusted black stone, crumbled spires rising like a throng of jagged teeth. Old bones littering the streets, and the agony of yore whispering on the wind.

  "Welcome," Varésh whispered, "to a place where the sun is silent."

  “A morosely poetic epithet,” Alerion said, manifesting at his side.

  "One that should have never come to be," Varésh said, bowing his head.

  “But it did,” Alerion said, “and you must live with that as you must live with many sins. If you buckle underneath the weight of your past, of your atrocities...if you abandon your search for Mirkvahíl then you shame yourself, Varésh Lúm-talé. You shame the dead you have made. Is that what you have come here for?”

  "No," Varésh murmured. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. "No."

  Alerion offered an approving nod.

  They walked.

  "I cannot help but wonder what horrible surprises await me here," Varésh said. "What else have I forgotten, what else yearns to ravage me from the inside out?"

  “If you focus on that,” said Alerion, “it will only distract you, and that is dangerous here. You have yet to run across Sonja and the other rusalks, and who knows what else lurks in this corpse of yesteryears?”