Post by Ad Absurdum on Mar 29, 2015 10:05:44 GMT -5
The streets of Kyrtanid frothed with colour.
From his position near the summit of the acropolis, Talik Erayne could see a sickening beauty to the proceedings. Lances of cerulean smeared through the streets, ruby gnats swarmed over buildings, prismatic bursts of light fountained at intersections. Some naïve traveller, emancipated from context and having the privilege of seeing what Talik could currently see, would almost mistake the whole ordeal for some sort of festival.
But of course, the Kyr loyalists prided themselves on aesthetics. The lances of cerulean were the discharge echoes from their high velocity rifles. The ruby gnats their tracer drones. The fountains were their chem bombs. Down in the streets of Kyrtanid, when one of those things bloomed, Talik’s people–Talik’s friends–died.
People who Talik had played with, grown up with, worked with, all of them now fighting, now dying, to gain an ounce of freedom.
Standing on the steps of the acropolis, looking at the cauldron of battle below, Talik wondered, if he could go back to before this entire thing had snowballed out of control, if he could show his fellow workers what he saw now, would they still have consented to this?
The thought only dwelled for a moment before Talik swatted it away. It was irrelevant. The rebels were down there for a purpose. The inner city of Kyrtanid had to be held. The chokepoints were the only hope they had against the mass numbers and superior tech of the Kyr loyalists. Holding off the reinforcements, keeping them away from the acropolis, so Talik could accomplish the task that just a month ago had seemed so futile.
This war had a cost that could never be comprehended. A horror that could never be done justice in any historical text. But the scars would be there. They always would be. The celebrations of victory would be drenched in somberness. Rebuilding would go beyond his generation, leaking into the next.
This would all be done. But first Talik had to bring that future into fruition. Tomorrow would come when Talik would achieve what he was meant to today.
Gripping his blade, he continued his ascent up to the summit.
To the Divine Chambers.
To kill Ceresta Kyr, vanquish her bloodline, and put an end to five generations of tyranny.
There were fifteen others with Talik, flanking him like wings on either side– the best of an exhausted pool of soldiers. Of course, the term soldier among the rebel ranks was used liberally. Under the status quo, none of them would’ve ever held a gun. To the Kyr bloodline, the Mazin were a mining source, nothing more, meant to dive ever deeper into the crust of the world and obtain precious Caldrium.
Steps away from the summit, Strix, the second in command and one of the few who had developed rapport with a Kyr rifle, took point. His head peered up over the steps, eyes glued to the scope of the gun, the barrel sweeping from right to left in a half moon arc.
A breath passed. Talik found himself relishing it; the air was sharper at this altitude, or perhaps the Kyr had also privileged the very oxygen people breathed.
“The terrace is clear,” Strix said.
Devoid of the threat of loyalists, Talik’s mind was almost immediately seduced by the grandiosity of the acropolis. Behind him, the world and the distant echoes of battle melted away, being overwhelmed by the rush of wind diving from the mountain peak. Ahead the floor spiraled away into mosaic fractals, orbiting around massive pillars chiselled from translucent crystal. The cores of each shimmered with a golden blaze, as if each contained their own miniature star.
“The stories say the pillars strain to hold up the sky itself,” Strix said, his words corroding from exhaustion. It had not been an easy climb.
“Then it’s best we leave them be,” Talik said. The undertones of his voice betrayed his scepticism. This story, to him, was the same ‘divine rule’ propaganda that bolstered the Kyr bloodline from the start. The citizens of Mazin had seen enough of myth being justification for tyranny¬–the bloodshed in the outer city had made that explicit enough.
Wordlessly, the fifteen in his group spread out along the width of the terrace. They would move forward slowly, lest there be any Chem traps or loyalists awaiting them.
The acropolis was massive, and the citadel ahead was a mere miniature on the horizon. Walking forward, Talik passed each pillar with his blade at the ready, wary of ambush . Yet no enemy revealed themselves and Talik was only met with the sight of his companions walking paralleland occasionally his own reflection, distorted into a more idealized version of his body on the pillars’ surface.
Black hair with threads of silver, darkened skin, the look of a forty year old who had experienced eighty years of war–Talik could only wonder how much of his appearance was genetics and how much had been beaten into him by the Caldrium mines.
Nature and nurture, the citizens of Mazin were famished from both.
Entranced by the architecture, Talik barely noticed the citadel now towering over him. Just outside of its entrance an archipelago of platforms broke up the terrace. On top of each, snug in their pedestal and composed of black Caldrium, stood the statues of the Kyr rulers.
Kiel and Lazula occupied one pedestal together. Brother and sister, separated by only ten months and the beginning of the damned bloodline. The Mazin had initially greeted the new rulers with blistering enthusiasm–more of kneejerk reaction to the successful prophecy of The Divine than actual traits of their leadership. With them came the construction of Kyrtanid, as well as that relentless hunger, that endless drive to obtain more Caldrium.
“It still surprises me he never considered surgery,” Strix muttered. He was of course referring to the crescent birthmark that swallowed the entire left half of Kiel’s face, leaving the impression that the ruler had always been obscured in raw shadow.
“Even a Kyr knows better than to fuck with The Divine,” Talik replied. The birthmark was the substance of their prophecy–the next ruler would have the marking of an eclipsed moon.
“I’d argue that’s what we’re doing now,” Strix said. Raising his rifle, he took a mock shot at the former ruler’s head.
Talik wasn’t able to find himself matching his friend’s dry humour. “The Divine care more about their stupid celestial dogma than composing a prophecy that may actually help the Mazin. We would all be dead within the next generation if we kept adhering to their eccentricities. Some things are meant to be defied. ”
“How will they respond, though? We cannot expect a warm reaction with their chosen leader being usurped.”
The thought had been a relentless buzz in Talik’s head throughout the entirety of this campaign. The Kyrs’ regime had been viciously supported by the so-called gods of this world. The Divine had granted them technology that they should have no right to own, weapons that could obliterate them all in an instant, and a sense of self-entitlement so entrenched that any thought of empathy had evaporated. Now here Talik was, about to commit the ultimate act of defiance, and The Divine had seemingly disappeared from this realm entirely. He couldn’t be certain what was better: this lack of response or what would’ve undoubtedly been a slaughter, had the gods decided to intervene in defence of their chosen leaders. The stories of the last rebellion, only seventy years ago and one in which The Divine had opted to get their hands dirty, had prickled his thoughts.
Talik moved onward, the mild incestuous posture of the siblings doing little to amuse him. Next in the bloodline was Valix. Here the noir Caldrium was accented with sapphires, highlighting the ruler’s ice blue eyes. With Valix, what had once been hunger had plunged into insanity–a Caldrium operation that was meant to suck the entire world dry, even if the world died as collateral.
Following insanity came malice. Larul’s head was mostly shaved, save for a crescent of waist length hair on her left side, a tribute to her grandfather. At this point what had been conscripted low wage work had devolved into blatant slavery. The elite didn’t bother with corrupt laws and dummy courts to quell dissent; they relied on plasma bullets and whips.
Carel followed. His statue as well managed to stand out from the bland colour scheme, his entire right arm composed of gold. The tyrant had lost his flesh counterpart in the last uprising.
And finally Ceresta Kyr. No colour present here, just pure non-reflecting Caldrium. The outfit was lavish, the stance brimming with pride, ebony hair rushing off the scalp to cascade and coil around her shoulders. There was a crisp arrogance that reverberated in every inch of the statue. A woman who was aware she was generation five of a ruthlessly successful family, one who accepted her role as a tyrant, one who strived to embed her own legacy in an already impressive roster.
Talik’s hand briefly brushed the base, sending a bolt of memories coursing through his head. How many weeks in the mine to get enough Caldrium for glorified idols like this? How many accidents? How many infected lungs from the tar and sludge that was produced from the extraction process? His eye skirted to his right hand. Three fingers and two stumps met his gaze.
That was considered lucky. If you hadn’t lost a limb by thirty, the mythos was that the Kyr must favour you.
Well, thought Talik, finally surrendering to humour. I now have the opportunity to thank them personally. He gave a nod to the citadel. “We’ll sack these statues soon enough, let’s finish what we came here for.”
The doors of the citadel were already open. No light shone through, leaving a dark void as passage to the inner atrium.
“If there’s an ambush, we can expect it now,” Strix said. “Ceresta wouldn’t leave herself completely unguarded.”
Talik nodded. “Rifles up, check the corners.” His own hand crept to the sidearm, still warm in its holster from a previous engagement.
He was fifth through the threshold, and the moment he passed he felt the change. The chilled breeze of the outer terrace immediately replaced by an electrical warmth; static air that was fused with energy.
Then the lights bloomed to life.
There was little actual floor in the atrium. A mere few metres from where Talik stood, the mosaic tiles dropped off into a yawning chasm descending deep into the depths of the mountain. The only way forward, just to his left, was a narrow bridge of crystal, one that jutted out right into the middle of the chasm pit before expanding into a tear drop shape.
On this little island, sprawled in her throne, sat Ceresta Kyr.
She was a twin of the statue outside. The same medusa curls of hair, the curt sneer on the cusp of her lips. A dress clung and flowed over her body, radiant like molten gold.
Two gloved hands came forward, clapped once, before locking in a tight clasp. Ceresta Kyr rose from her throne and Talik saw Strix raise his rifle straight at her head.
“Guests, guests! How delightful!” Her voice, feather light and melodic, wavered for a moment. “Delightful…is that the word for it…yes. Certainly. Guests in this holy place! Delightful. Not rude. Not intrusive. Certainly not sacrilege. No, nonsense! Welcome, welcome!”
Talik stepped forward, raising his blade, levelling it straight at the tyrant’s heart. “We will accept your surrender now, Ceresta. You have fifteen of your own rifles raised at your head, I hardly doubt you’ve forgotten their capabilities.”
Ceresta continued to dance forward, taking the threat with the seriousness one may give a rogue snowflake. She raised her own hand, fingers warping into a gun silhouette, pointing it straight at Talik. “Ah! Talik Erayne, leader of the Malik resistance. Truly delightful, indeed! Bold! Courageous! Vivacious! Welcome, I was hoping you’d climb up here personally. It would’ve been such a shame to have to retrieve you myself. And you brought Strix Casder! Quite a devil himself, if the propaganda has been correct. Did you two enjoy offing my general, Delquin? It gave me a sense of satisfaction I must–yes, yes, don’t act surprised. Any kind of military leader who manages to forfeit even a single square metre of this city can only be as inept as a corpse…”
Talik’s voice bit through. “You understand, Kyr, that we’re perfectly willing to shoot you right here and now.”
“A segue! Sumptuous, Talik, I was afraid I’d have to do it myself.” Ceresta paused a moment, allowing a grin to blossom on her face. “I understand completely. What you need to understand–Talik, Strix, fabled resistance of the weathered Mazin–is that you can either decide to talk on my terms or all die deaths that I’m sure The Divine will relish in making exceptionally painful.”
In an instant, Talik found his group surrounded.
The Divine flickered into existence on all sides of them. Incandescent silver ghosts that pierced into the bronze ambience of the citadel. Shards of crystal formed a carapace over bodies, masking the point where armour ends and flesh began.
If there even was flesh.
Weapons advanced beyond comprehension, both blades and firearms at once in the form of a crystalline jigsaw, all intersected in their direction. Just one of them could obliterate Talik’s entire squad in less than a second.
Talik’s blade shuddered in his grip, his peripherals picking up the new threats. Of course it had been a trap. How could it have not been a trap? Nevertheless, he spoke. “You can’t–“
There’s a whirl in the air between him and Strix, as if looking through a fisheye. Strix coughed once, his face devolving to a frown.
At the base of his neck his skin took on the colour of a raw eyelid, before peeling back into scarlet as blood began to gush out. The glass blade of The Divine, so sharp it only needed to kiss his skin, wavered an inch away. It took a moment for life to whisk out of his eyes, slip out of his body, leaving just an empty shell to crumple to the floor.
Talik’s teeth bit hard into his lower lip, drawing blood.
“Now, now, love,” Ceresta’s voice clicked out the syllables in undiluted arrogance. “Whatever you were about to say, whether it be ‘you can’t demand’, or ‘you can’t kill us’, or ‘you can’t end this rebellion’, rest assured that I most certainly can. The Divine don’t take lightly to their prophecies being spat on, so let’s put away with the empty threats, shall we?” She hesitated, her lip curling in the impression that something distasteful had wormed its way into her mouth. “Ah, this is so infuriating, Talik! A short fuse is such a vice sometimes, and The Divine are twitchy trigger fingers to the point it’s almost adorable. But I sincerely, sincerely promise to end this useless antagonism if you agree to speak on my terms concerning the immediate end to this conflict. Such a shame it had to be Strix. Apologies for that, dear, but, if I’ve learned something in my life, it’s that proving a point has to be visceral. I’m certain you now understand that your hands are tied in this circumstance.”
Talik let his blade dip, ever so slightly. “You’re willing to discuss terms?”
Ceresta shrugged. “I, for one, was always willing to discuss terms. It’s so cleaner than this needless conflict.” She raised a finger, pointing it accursedly. “You’re the one who came in here guns blazing.”
“I find that highly doubtful.”
“If I may spoil the end of this conversation, Talik,” Cereste smirked. “It will end with you giving your unconditional surrender.”
Talik could barely resist rising against the arrogance present. Instead his voice whispered out an even challenge: “And if I don’t?”
“Fair is fair. If my pitch unimpressed you, I’ll let you kill me right on the spot.”
The conversation cut off there, and Talik found himself in bafflement at the proposal. Predicting that she wasn’t being taken seriously, Ceresta gestured for him to approach her on the bridge.
Taking a look at the others in his group and seeing only impassive faces framed by hulking Divine, Talik took the only choice he had and stepped onto the bridge, walking up towards Ceresta.
Her smile hardly wavered as he stopped a mere metre from her body. His left hand, blade still hardwired into his grasp, wanted to raise it and thrust it straight into this tyrant’s gut. For Strix. His eyes, catching glimpses of The Divine, reminded him on how fast these god beings could move. His blade would never reach its target.
Instead, Ceresta gestured for him to follow her back to the teardrop. The moment his feet stepped onto it, the entire piece detached from the bridge, ascending upwards into the ceiling.
Again, Talik grip tightened on the blade, a flourish that Ceresta immediately picked up on.
“Truly you didn’t expect to discuss in this room? The acoustics are too good, Talik. Try to gossip and everyone will hear. No, no that will hardly do. My private chambers are for the better. Besides, I must show you something,” she said. Talik, glanced upward, seeing a teardrop sized hole in the ceiling above them. Here at the centre, he could take in the full size of the atrium. Shrouded by the silvery veils of The Divine, his companions, in spite of certain death, looked ready to fight to the last inch of their lives. Talik suddenly felt longing for such a passion. Yet that’s why he had been elected leader, his mild temperament. The ability to realize when it would be better to talk than to fight.
He hoped, in this instance, that his intuition was correct.
The room they appeared in was clearly Ceresta’s private chambers. Surprisingly spartan, the only two notable pieces of furniture were a four-poster bed and a washbasin, each occupying opposite sides of the room.
“I’m curious, Talik, how does one so willingly defy the will of The Divine?” Ceresta said, stepping off of the teardrop. “These aren’t the bone readings of some mountain shaman. These are the golden tablets of the gods. Yet, here you are, more than willing to attempt to crush that. Do you doubt my birthright?”
“Such a question misinterprets my motives,” Talik stepped off to the opposite side, his blade still aimed at Ceresta. “I didn’t come here to debate if you are product of Divine prophecy. I came here to kill you.”
Ceresta laughed, taking Talik’s remark as if it were an inside joke. “At which point you would doom us all.”
“The Mazin are already doomed with you as ruler. Too long have we suffered and died due to your pathetic indulgences and greed. Too long have we suffered accepting the words on sacred tablets as life itself. The will of The Divine must be defied, the Mazin will carve their own future.”
“Yet you would so easily condemn us to a fate worse than death.” Fragments of condescension laced her speech. “For preceding death is life. Ah, life! Sheer existence is a wonderful thing, Talik! The short sweet idea of bursting into this world for a fraction of a fraction on the great scale of things, before winking out again into that dark abyss. Yes, existence is the finest of wines!”
“You speak nonsense.”
“Hardly. I speak of the opposite. Non-existence is a fate worse than death, for you don’t even get the beauty that precedes it. You are forever in that abyss, unseeing, unknowing, unpersoned.”
“Are you implying that you or The Divine are capable of such power?” A knot of unease rippled through Talik’s chest.
Ceresta shook her head. “Oh, no, Talik. Try to follow along, darling. I’m saying that you have that power. Right here, right now. You and your blade could oh, so easily damn us all in an instant.”
“Lies. Damnation for you will be nothing but relief for us.”
“You’d wish it was that simple,” Ceresta gestured with a single finger. “Did I say I have to show you something? I certainly did. Come hither, towards the bed.” She giggled at the implications, but nevertheless waltzed in the four-poster’s direction. Talik followed suite. None of Ceresta’s actions were quelling the sense of unease condensing inside of him. The knot was growing, tangling unto itself…
The curtains were closed, and Ceresta waited until Talik was nearly kissing the fabric, before thrusting them open in a dramatic flourish.
The bed’s sheets were positioned flawlessly–the servants still proactive even during times of war–but there, near the edge, lay a basket. Inside of it, a baby slept soundly, swaddled deep in the blankets. A boy, Talik judged, given the limited characteristics available to him.
“Indeed a boy,” Ceresta nodded, seemingly probing his thoughts.
Talik kept his eyes on the infant. “The rumours were wrong then. They said you had just begun your pregnancy. No matter. A baby hardly changes any of this. Sixth generation Kyr is still Kyr.”
“Oh no, Talik. This baby won’t be sixth generation,” Ceresta dipped her hand down. Her fingers just brushing his soft skin, she turned the infant’s head slightly to the left, exposing his cheek.
Engulfing most of the skin on this side was a crescent shaped birthmark.
What?
Talik felt his entire mind take flight, spiraling out of his body. Not a feeling of levitating bliss, but rather a vertigo inducing sense of raw panic. An avalanche of thoughts crushed down upon him, obliterating any chance of rational thought.
“So fascinating watching your reaction. I’d show you the digital archives, but judging from your face I’d say there’s no need. Of course there isn’t. You know that birthmark is unmistakable. You no doubt got a grand view of it sauntering into this citadel. “
Talik blinked his eyelids, trying to shutter out the image before him. “What am I looking at?”
“Kielar Kyr, love. First generation. Subject of the great prophecy of The Divine. Destined and chosen ruler of the Mazin. And no, no, the rumours weren’t wrong,” Ceresta’s voice was sugar sweet as she patted her stomach. “I am with a second child. A girl, no doubt. One who will be named Lazula…”
“How is this possible?”
The Talik who had exited only a minute ago would have never considered harming a child. To him, even rebellions had to have limits. Basic morality had to be maintained in conflict. Yet currently, he was finding himself an instance away from stabbing this infant right in the heart. End the whole ordeal right this instant. But, curiosity be damned, he had to know.
Ceresta smirked. “The Divine have their prophecies for a reason. Destiny and visions! Such terms we use to fathom the incomprehensible. They don’t know because of visions of the future. They know because the future has already happened. They slide through time as effortlessly as we slide between rooms. And they can bring others with them. Kielar is their chosen one because he was already their chosen one. The prophecy is prophecy because it was already reality. The end is in the beginning.”
“Not just Kielar…”
“Ah! You understand! All the Kys are in this cycle. An endless loop. We rule because we already ruled. Kielar becomes Valix becomes Larul becomes Carel becomes Ceresta becomes Kielar. A self-fulfilling family. The circle is closed. Divine rule by paradox! And when I heard I was to birth the start of this glorious bloodline, I was nothing short of ecstatic. To play such a part is an intoxicating feeling. But begging your indulgence, Talik, it is a curse as well. The Divine will take poor Kielar away from me shortly, and Lazula soon after. But an even greater fate awaits them. To be the beginning of such of splendid Empire is truly a privileged task.”
Talik’s eyes darted from Ceresta to the infant, still sleeping in the crib. “If the beginning is laid in front of me so easily. I see no reason why I shouldn’t end it now, The Divine and their prophecies be damned.”
“You poor thing. If only you could.”
“I see no reason not to.”
“Then let me shove it in your unseeing face,” Ceresta snapped, the word smoldering with venom. She paused, closing her eyes and breathing. “You have children, yes?”
“Two sons.”
“And no doubt parents, and grandparents, and great grandparents. Not all of them still living, but still remembered. No doubt they have all contributed to the Caldrium extraction.”
“And they would all certainly wish for me to commit the very same action in this moment,” Talik said, his arms still tense on his blade.
“Except they wouldn’t, dear. Because they couldn’t. Imagine a world in which you killed Kielar and I, right in this moment. No more child for The Divine to send back. No more prophecy fulfilled.”
“Good riddance.”
“Hardly, Talik,” Ceresta said, now withdrawing from the bed and slowly circling the room. “Without a prophecy fulfilled there can be no true ruler of the Mazin. Without that, no one ever thinks to increase Caldrium production. Thus, no mines are ever built. What happens then? The Mazin stick to agriculture, committing to farming and indicting themselves into the same static existence for centuries to come.”
Talik started to circle too, orbiting at a polar opposite of Ceresta. “I hardly see what you’re getting at.”
“Our existence is contingent on incredibly specific circumstances. The revolution of the Mazin brought on by the Kyr, brought on by my family, no doubt had a huge impact. You said it yourself, Talik, the Kyr have harmed nearly every single Mazin in existence. No one has been untouched by our presence. But at the same time, it was the Kyr who brought forth the Caldrium operations. It was through the Caldrium mines that your grandfather, injured by a tunnel collapse, was nursed to health by your grandmother, sparking an irremovable chemistry.”
Talik’s whole body trembled. “How the hell do you know that!?”
“It’s irrelevant. What matters is that your grandparents meet because of Caldrium. Your mother is born because of the decisions made by the Kyr. You come into existence because the divine prophecy ensures that we rule and make the decisions. Without the Kyr, none of that happens. You don’t get to be born. It’s not even close.” Ceresta smirked, lavishing in the words. “It’s like I said, Talik, a fate worse than death. When you kill that infant there, then you doom us all. None of us. Not your parents, nor your children, nor you, will even get to exist.”
Talik paused, unable to summon words for a moment, his mind struggling to comprehend. “Surely…surely that is better than a life full of suffering from pathetic tyrants.”
“But that’s the sick irony of it. We can’t even be responsible for that suffering. In all honesty, love, you can’t hold a single claim against us. It is because of the exact decisions we made: the creation of the Caldrium operations, the so-called exploitation of your people that you get to enjoy this little thing called life. Your existence is contingent upon those precise circumstances. And truly, darling, don’t try to delude yourself. It’s not even close to be being better. An existence that is unavoidably flawed is certainly better than no existence at all. Could you imagine never living? Could you imagine subjecting that fate to your own children? Could you subject the entire Mazin to that?” Ceresta shook her head. “No, no, Talik. Kielar must live. Lazula must be born. The paradox must be fulfilled. Otherwise, everything you know and love will vanish into the abyss.”
Talik found his sword dropping back down to his side, the weight of it all bogging him down. He couldn’t even brings his eyes to meet Cereste “This is how you’ve maintained power for so long. This is why the other rebellions failed.”
“It’s the Ace in the Hole, The Kyr, by all meanings of the term, are a necessary evil,” she shrugged. “The revolutions happen as The Divine predict they will. None of us are truly free. The future happens the way they want it, too. The Kyr get to rule, but it is contingent upon The Divine’s demands. We’re confined to this world, but…they are not from here. Ninety percent of the Caldrium we mine is rocketed off to their monoliths high above this land, perhaps sent to distant realms, for whatever purpose they may have. We’re all puppets in the end.” Ceresta moved back towards the bed. On a small desk next to the bed, lay a shimmering plate of gold. She picked it up in the way on would when treating the most sacred of objects. “One of The Divine’s coveted tablets. It’s all written down here, Talik. Your revolution…” she flicked a part of the Tablet and words manifested in the air in front of it.
“A leader of the Mazin will emerge. Talik Erayne, taking up his father’s blade, will seek to end five generations of Tyranny.”
“Your pre-emptive success.” Ceresta continued, pressing another part of the gold plate, materializing more words.
“The resistance will take the inner city. Talik will ascend the Acorpolis, seeking to confront the despot, Ceresta Kyr.”
Reading each line, Talik felt blows to his body. Physical shocks. Wounds that were deeper than what could be wrought by simple blades and Kyr rifles.
“The birth of Kielar…”
“Ceresta will birth the fabled child, one who bears the scar of the eclipsed moon. The circle will be complete, the end is in the beginning.”
A great weight seemed to force upon Talik. He could hardly stay upright. A sickening wave of nausea rippled through him. “And what next?”
Ceresta smiled. “The Divine can see it, but I cannot. The Tablet reveals itself to mortals as the events happen, for if one knew their future, one could exploit the potential to change it. Let us be true, though, Talik. Your revolution is in vain. You’d dare not wash away five generations of people who have existed. You wouldn’t vanquish your own children, unbecoming them.” She glanced down at the golden surface. “Once again I find myself speaking too hastily. The newest words are manifesting as we speak. The failure of your revolution, as predicted by The Divine.”
That’s when Talik finally understood.
When he raised his head, looking to confront Ceresta in eyes, seeing her holding the tablet in triumph; it all snapped into place.
When he looked at the tablet he saw not a prophecy. He saw millennia of servitude by the Mazin. Doomed to always be exploited, always beaten, always crushed by a group of gods who only needed them for extraction. His children, his grandchildren, all of them, condemned to the same fate.
He saw a Kyr in front of him, one who would reset the cycle over again. He saw the origin of this loop of madness.
A paradox, seemingly unbreakable.
And in that moment, when Talik finally made his decision, it was hardly a decision at all.
He stepped forward, arm raised, as Ceresta glanced up from tablet, to meet his gaze, frowning.
The confusion in her eyes condensed into fear. “What-no…WAIT!”
With little effort, the blade sank into her neck and the panic smeared on Ceresta’s face dripped into one of complete shock. It was not just the blade stabbing into Ceresta. It was not just Talik committing the action. It was five generations of Mazin, abused and beaten, tearing into the Tyrant’s neck. Blood boiled out of the wound, a rich wine colour that soaked over Talik’s arm. It was smoldering with warmth, metallic in smell. As it finally began to coagulate; Ceresta’s head cocked sideways, sending her whole body slipping out of the blade. It collapsed to the ground, discarded, disgraced. From ruler to corpse. The tablet shined dully beside her.
“Forgive me…” he whispered, to no one yet everyone.
Talik was barely unaware of The Divine materializing around him; instead he closed his eyes, anticipating the end to come¬–for the paradox to collapse.
But it didn’t.
Around him, The Divine shimmered over Ceresta’s corpse. Some moved towards the four poster bed, leering over the small basket and its occupant. Talik simply waited for everything he knew–his wife, his children, his existence–to vanish.
But it never came.
Talik’s eyes opened. He found himself gazing at his own body, touching the blood saturated on his arm and blade, making sure it was real, authentic. The corpse of Ceresta was still collapsed upon the floor, vacant eyes taking in the ceiling. All of it real. All of it existing.
Still here, still present.
The tablet on the floor caught his eye. Gingerly, he picked it up; it weighed heavier than it looked. As he brought it close to his face, words sprung forth from the golden surface, absorbing into his retinas.
“Talik will cleave Ceresta’s neck from her head. The blood of the tyrant will spill on the immaculate floors of her own palace. The infants must be protected. The circle will be closed.”
“No…impossible,” the words escaped Talik’s lips, little more than tiny breaths. His hand squeezed against the tablet. “It can’t be…IT CAN’T BE!” He flung the Divine’s toy, sending it crashing against the wall. Hoping for it to shatter, to break apart and scatter, useless and dead.
Instead, it simply rang dully, falling to the floor, unharmed. New words now emitted from it.
“A new circle will be opened.”
Talik stared at the words for a long time, saying nothing.
Destroy it.
Crush it.
And yet he couldn’t. He could pick it up and throw it a thousand times, knowing it would do nothing. In the end, he was powerless.
In the end, he didn’t even want to.
Moving slowly back to the teardrop, dragging the corpse of Ceresta behind him, Talik began the descent back to his comrades.
On the bed, the basket was empty.
His eyes shifted to the corpse of Ceresta, leg already cooling in his hands. His mind didn’t immediately pick up the disfigurement, but slowly, inevitably he noticed.
Ceresta’s belly, once swollen with pregnancy, had deflated, excess skin sagging. A grotesque form of birth, for the most grotesque of leaders.
He turned away, forcing his eyes closed.
In the main atrium, his fellow rebels were waiting for him, untouched by The Divine. Their reaction was obvious. Oblivious. They first saw Talik, still alive, arm covered with blood and they saw what remained of Cesresta. Talik could not blame them when they started to celebrate, cheers echoing endlessly in the atrium’s curved halls.
The teardrop finished its descent and Talik was surrounded, his comrades desperate to get a look at the body. They had to see to believe. Even though the atrium reverberated with their praise, Talik could barely hear it all, his mind adrift.
A hand clamped on to his shoulder briefly grounding him back to reality.
“Talik, you’ve done it! Ceresta is vanquished and The Divine cower back! The future is the Mazin’s.”
Talik acknowledged the face, nodded to his friend, but just stepped forward, letting the hand fall. The blade in his own loosen, and clattered to the floor. The atrium, as wide as it was, felt suffocating. He left detached from his comrades, leading them to the corpse.
Before he exited, he caught of glimpse of something in his peripheral vision. Silver. Shimmering.
Always watching.
He stepped through the doorway, not bothering to look. Night had fallen outside.
But there'll be something endearing. 