The Tower stands in mist and gloom
Within its heart lies Angel's doom.
Caer Sync rose like a ghostly spear out of the mist of the Singing Cliffs, and disappeared again into brooding fog. Green patterns climbed its smooth, pale sides like hexagonal vines. The sound of bells and chimes lifted upwards invisibly from the endless storm of water below.
All around was a pale, yellowish nothing; the sea had vanished, the sky was a memory, and the forest had been left behind.
The Holy Tower was all that remained amid the creeping mist.
Through the chill gloom, a black-winged figure emerged, small against the giant spire, sweeping around it in a slow arc, the mist stirred into restless eddies as it passed.
Mekka circled the Tower, keeping low enough to feel the icy spray of the falls, out of sight of the small windows that girthed the stone above him, like dark eyes. He would have preferred to come in darkness; his black feathers stood out too starkly against the fog and white stone, but there was nothing to be done about that, now.
Shortly, he passed around to the southern side of the Tower, and the large entrance platform came into view. Alighting soundlessly, he folded his wings and moved swiftly into the shadowed recess of one of the golden gates.
There he went still, pressing himself against the wall, carefully watching the platform, the opposite gate, and the swirling fog.
There was no one to be seen.
Nevertheless, he remained cautious for a minute or two, before reaching into his jacket and producing a lockpick. With a deft flick of his wrist, he was through the gate. Closing it silently behind him, he moved into the dark, curving corridor.
A few steps later, he arrived at an arched entranceway, leading to another, smaller platform.
Beyond it opened a vast, empty space.
The Sanctuary.
Mekka paused where he was, just inside the threshold. The stones of the wall seeped cold through his feathers and clothing, and seemed to permeate right through to his bones, as well.
For a moment, he closed his eye.
He had only ever been inside Caer Sync once before: on the night his mother had tried to dispose of him. He could remember nothing of the incident, but it was a fact that haunted the back of his mind.
Looking up again, he stared at the opposite archway for a long moment, but nothing moved there.
Tek'Hari, the current Syncwarden, was the only person allowed inside the Sanctuary, but there was no sign of him.
There was no reason to believe he might be here, either. As far as Mekka knew, he only visited for maintenance purposes, or to open the gates for Ascension or Descension events, when Arkanian citizens chose to end their lives.
Slowly, Mekka stepped out onto the platform.
No torches were lit. The cavernous chamber was brightened only marginally by a dim haze of light filtering through the tiny, triangular windows. The sound of the Cliffs below filled the space with dancing music. It was quite beautiful, but had a restless tone to it, as though the bells were too eager.
Every now and then, a great booming sound echoed off the walls.
Mekka lifted his gaze upwards.
The sight of Excelsior's Clock stopped his breath in his throat.
He had never seen it before. It was huge.
The clock had several arms of varying sizes, but most were silent, save the largest and slowest, which tolled with a bone-shuddering ominousness, as though counting down to the end of the world.
Perhaps, Mekka thought nervously, it is.
The face was covered in hundreds of mysterious glyphs, arranged in a beautiful, circular pattern. Only a few of them had ever been translated; they were so ancient that their meaning had long been forgotten.
Excelsior's Clock was also a gate. It was opened regularly to admit those Angels who had decided that it was time for them to die.
Ending one's life by ascending to Excelsior was a matter of honour among Angels, an occasion to be celebrated. Death by any other means was something to be ashamed of. That was why murder was so abhorred in Angelican society: to deprive someone of their chance to ascend was the most heinous of crimes, and such criminals were usually thrown into the Pit.
Most Angels believed that the Goddess resided at the summit of the Tower. Mekka wasn't sure if that were true, and didn't particularly care. He was never going to reach Excelsior, whether it existed or not.
He cast his gaze downwards.
The Dark Gate, in comparison, was relatively featureless. It was just a grating.
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The trigon-forged bars had, however, been cast into the forms of twisting vines and leaves, as though whoever had created it had, at least, sought to make it beautiful.
There was a beauty to darkness, Mekka realised. He had always liked the night.
As he stared down into the impenetrable depths of the Pit, Mekka felt a sense of, not horror, but sadness creep over him.
He was not happy enough to ascend to Excelsior.
But his regrets could carry him all the way to the bottom of infinity.
Are my wings truly made of trigon? he thought gloomily. Do I belong down there?
He leapt off the ledge.
Slowly, he circled down through the empty chamber, the light dimming as he descended, the windows – and the world beyond them – retreating.
He landed on the Gate in a crouch.
Turning to his satchel, he retrieved the cloth-bound bundle, unwrapped it, and opened the box.
The trigonic dagger lay there, gleaming darkly.
It did not seem as horrifying as it once had. It seemed almost… normal.
He felt suddenly that the knife belonged to him, as though it had been his all along, and that Ferrian had been right to give it to him.
An overwhelming sense of everything falling into place came over him, like a revelation.
He was supposed to be here.
Reaching into the box, he took out the dagger, and held it in his hand.
And then he knew something else.
He was not supposed to drop it into the Pit.
As he watched, the dagger shimmered, and a pale, ghostly copy detached itself, held in a transparent hand that was not his, and yet, somehow, it was the same. Slowly, the apparition turned the dagger-image in its hand and plunged it, almost gently, into his chest.
Mekka felt nothing – the real dagger was still clutched in his hand – but his thoughts began to grow heavy, weighing him down, as though he were sinking into a morass.
His mother was right, he thought despondently, to bring him here. He should have been cast into this Pit as an infant. It was only due to the kindness of a soft-hearted woman that he had survived.
And what had he accomplished, as a result?
Nothing but an endless string of failures.
He had no family, and no real home. His dearest friend was dead, and the woman he loved was in love with someone else. He had been an outcast from the beginning: hated, feared and rejected. What was there for him, in the world outside this Pit?
What was there?
Perhaps, he thought, tears leaking down his face, blurring his vision, he was not evil.
But he was a mistake.
The Governor's voice floated down to him, from somewhere high and distant, punctuated with the pain from each blow of his fat fist. You are a mistake, you black-winged scum! You worthless abomination!
Yes, Mekka agreed, seeing again his own blood splattered on the tiled floor of the Governor's office. Lifting a hand, he touched his patched eye. I am an abomination.
The ghostly hand repeated its action, the dagger disappearing silently into his chest.
Placing both hands on the knife, following the motion of the apparition, he turned it slowly until its tip pointed towards his heart.
I do not belong in this world.
A kind of cold peace came over him, smoothing out his thoughts, his anguish sliding away into the void. Only the dagger was left, with its wicked, sharp edges, promising a swift end to him...
Slowly, Mekka brought the dagger close, until it rested against his chest. He drew a final breath.
His hands tightened on the hilt, and…
… the floor opened up beneath him.
The shock of the sudden lurch kicked Mekka's survival instinct alive. Dropping the knife, he lunged to the side, catching hold of a section of the Dark Gate as it split into four segments, moving slowly to lay flat against the sides of the shaft.
A vast abyss yawned below.
Gasping, shaking in horror, Mekka clung to the Gate. Dazed, he lifted his head to look upwards.
An Angel stood on the platform, high above, near the mechanism that controlled the Gates.
“Tek!” Mekka cried. “Close the Gate!”
The Angel ignored him. Instead, he walked forward to the edge of the platform and stared down at Mekka, his eyes hidden behind the gleam of his spectacles.
Releasing his hold on the grating, Mekka beat his wings to fly upwards, but instead lurched downwards again, his stomach rising into his throat. With another desperate lunge, he grabbed the edge of the Gate again.
An immense, invisible force pulled him downwards, and a strong wind was building, rushing into the Pit like a gigantic maw drawing in a breath.
Seeking to swallow him.
“Tek!” he screamed.
Though just moments earlier, Mekka had wished for nothing more than to end his life, some part of his brain was panicking, beating against him wildly, like a rabid animal.
It was true, that he wanted to die.
But not like this!
He had no desire to find out what lay in the depths of that Pit...
“You are exactly where you should be, Mekk'Ayan!” the Syncwarden's voice drifted down to him. “I am finishing what your mother started!”
“This is murder!”
“This is not murder,” Tek replied calmly. “This is disposal of vermin...”
Gritting his teeth, Mekka reached out for a higher handhold. Slowly, with great effort, he began to pull himself up the grating. He dared not try to fly. The wind and pull of the dark force was too strong.
His fear and despair felt like terrible weights that were shackled to him, dragging him down. Perhaps fighting the Pit was futile.
But he was going to try.
“It seems,” he called up to the Syncwarden, “that your family has a penchant for killing people!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your son,” Mekka replied, “murdered my friend!”
“My son,” Tek yelled down angrily, “resides in Excelsior!”
“No!” Mekka yelled back. “He doesn't!” Panting with the effort of his climb, he pulled himself up further. One handhold at a time. “He was abducted by a sorcerer and tortured! His wings were cut off, and he went insane!”
“LIES!” Tek screamed, his voice bouncing around the chamber, punctuated by a boom from the clock, far above. “You filthy scum! How dare you say such things?!”
“He was locked up in a prison cell,” Mekka went on, brutally, “and murdered before he had a chance to be executed!”
Tek was hovering in the middle of the chamber, now. Mekka squinted up through the hair whipping about his face to see the Angel glaring down at him, his fists balled in fury. “I will not listen to this blasphemous nonsense!” Tek yelled, but his voice quavered. “Just fall into the Pit and DIE!”
His last words were a scream.
Mekka's arms burned as he fought to retain his hold on the Gate. “Believe whatever you want!” he called. “But Cimmeran was a tragedy! And Aari did not deserve to die!”
Tek flapped about the chamber in agitation. Mekka had clearly rattled him. “H-his name was Cim'Hari!” Tek cried.
“Not any more!” Mekka yelled back. “Don't be like him, Tek! Don't do this! Close the Gate!”
Mekka's grip was weakening. The rush of wind ripped black feathers from him, sending them spiralling into the darkness.
He couldn't hold on much longer. The force was becoming stronger.
Tek continued to circle in distress. But for a moment he paused, glancing across at the mechanism.
For an instant, a spark of hope flared in Mekka. But it was extinguished almost at once as he noticed, with horror, that Tek was sinking.
The Syncwarden seemed to realise this himself a moment after Mekka had. Flapping his golden-brown wings, he tried to gain height.
He got nowhere.
Tek beat his wings wildly, trying in vain to escape the pull of the Pit, but he continued to descend, inexorably.
The dark force had a hold of him.
There was nothing Mekka could do.
Crying out in terror, Tek was caught by the wind and flung downwards.
But he had no wish to die either. As he passed Mekka, he threw himself at the black Angel, grabbing hold of his wing.
Mekka, unable to bear the weight of both of them, lost his hold on the Gate and they both tumbled away, vanishing into the Endless Pit.