“After returning I didn’t get to see my friends die. I found their deformed descendants, and I found the graves in front of which they had cried. It took forever for me to use the word rain outside of the recurring dream, of the one where I had saved us all, and our city, along all of their souls. But in the waking reality I know Elvisat and Kali stare from a place only Clivanaratea can visit, and I wonder what they think about me, about the choice I sometimes feel I robbed from every other Felsian.
As for a positive development, I have grown a new finger since the last entry, and since a few decades ago I have noticed a tingling sensation growing in me: I think she has restored, bit by bit, my connection with the All Carver. I wonder if I will need to use magic soon, if I’ll meet sons and daughters of nature able of reading these pages. Maybe it’s simply because she notices I am growing weary from the repetitive tasks that keeping a dead city standing entails. If I were a god, I’d never impose this drawn out torture on my creations. Maybe many Masterworks don’t mind their eternality. I do, for I wasn’t meant to have it.”
—Excerpt from a book written in a world long gone.
The reunification of the layers of the soul always came with a gentle twitch for Dirofil, a sudden inflow of reality that applied pressure all over his consciousness. Immediately after flooded in some of the thoughts he had birth forth during his meditation. Sensorial feedback followed as his eyes and ears activated. What wasn’t usual was the squirming, the newfound gross quality of its own flesh flowing layer over layer. Swallowed, that’s how he felt. The true Dirofil had been devoured by an otherworldly presence, and in its stomach he fought against walls of panic. The body he had once shared with Shadiran didn’t feel his anymore, and he had to overcome such sensations. For her. For the world Unborn. He clawed his cheeks and spun his hand, extirpating a ball of slime from his face only to let it slowly melt into his hand.
Watching it melt made his toes drum over the floor of his solitary room. A frozen draft flowed in from the corridor, attempting, but failing, to veil him in comfort. At least now the taint represented by the dog parts would be lesser, incomparable to the irremovable stain on his self that Lyssav had left behind. And what hurt the most was that he lacked understanding: he found himself, once and again, incapable to fathom how the touch of someone he did—as merely a matter of fact—love could tarnish with such hideous pervasiveness. Lyssav was his older sister, The Second Envisioned; The Soothing One, as pronounced by Leptos. The way the shared smile had imprinted on him stood to no reason. The absurdity of the whole situation that clogged his mind with unwanted worries and disgusts resulted unbearable.
Heavy-bodied he struggled to lift his bones from the faux throne. The pressure of his cape upon his shoulders was the only welcome feeling amongst that set of crushing sensations. Even broken and full of teeth it served as a blanket of familiarity, a carrier of memories of tides long past. Yet the undeniable truth still managed to creep through: something had vanished, or been vanquished, from his inner sanctum. He tripped into the corridor, he dragged his form up the tube until he reached the empty bridge. Thrice over he had to scan the place to make sure his troubled mind wasn’t deceiving him, as if reality was contained behind a screen and not something he could interact with.
In front of the one eye of the Corship she sat, tail lying as if lifeless under wings that barely twitched.
Are you lucid, Corship?
Yes. Awake. Do you have need of me?
Everyone on board has, one way or the other. But right now, I just want to converse with you.
Conversation is positive.
Oftentimes, yes. We consider you our little brother, and Original of the Core. We call you the Seventh.
I know. Morbilliv told. Parvov and others built my body. So I be Corship, the Seventh Forged.
Our epithets are a reflection of our nature as children born from the mind of our creator. Forged is a word that doesn’t seed the same image in the mind’s eye of the interlocutor. However, it would be foolish to deny it fits you, Seventh Forged.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Dirofil’s tail slipped to a side, and his back straightened ever so slightly. There was solace to be found in sharing time with the Corship, in his honest simplicity.
Fits me, yes. I like Dirofil. You behave adequately towards Corship.
Someone has hit the dictionary! Someone… orange.
Hi Babesi!
Hi Corship!
Hi Babesi!
Hi Corship!
Dirofil tuned out. The infamous “Hi” loop, he had learned in his scant time since returning to the ship, could go on for a few solid minutes. He paced around the bridge, a single hand scratching the interior of the window ever so softly. What was he doing? Indulging in this unsafe haven, sharing these parcels of air with Lyssav? Inside the Corship his existence was guaranteed, unless he directly attacked his sister. A unique chance to strike the button of self-destruction, to trigger her wrath while she meditated, but not a wise one to take. If Lyssav rested, it was because she trusted her own strength, her capacity to fend off any sneaky assailant. There wasn’t a soul on board that could mutiny against Lyssav, and in his heart of hearts, he knew that probably held true for the world at large. She had Leptos’ blessing, permission for the one Thinker that knew the true extent of her powers. And here he was, waning, moping over his misfortune as if he wasn’t one of its effectors.
The gaze he was born with met the gaze he stole, dormant in the back of his hand. And while he was no match for Lyssav, he could call the one that could be. The true extent of the Reaper’s power remained an unknown quantity, its weaknesses likewise. And soon he would have water to give the beast an edge. Could he willingly endanger the crew, using the cursed eye not as an aid, not to fight as equals against an invisible threat, but as a lure? Often he had thought of the tide he would slay the Reaper, of a time where he could use its gift wantonly and without consequences. Now, however, he fantasized about harnessing the creature. The Reaper could be unwieldy, but if he could lead lyssav astray, lead her far from the ship and spray the water on her, causing his sister to become paralyzed from fear, maybe the monster could finish the job.
He shivered at the idea, his phalanxes pelting the glass of the Corship’s main window as they trembled. Like rain they drummed over the surface, and in them he saw the chance to become said rain on Lyssav’s parade. She had kindly shared a smile with him. He would kindly share the defeat of existence with her.
The captain walked into the room, and found him still caressing the glass that kept the sea at bay. “Dirofil, are you idle?”
“Sadly yes. Are you armed?”
Morbilliv dragged the heavy frame of Parvov next to their lithe brother. “Any body one wields is but a weapon to face reality.”
“But the weapon I need is not solid like our bones, Morbilliv.”
“I failed to witness what Lyssav did to you, but your distress touched everyone’s minds.” Morbilliv inserted a hand into Parvov’s chest and clasped it around the vial. He carefully tore it out his flesh, and entrusted it into his brother’s palm.
“I have tasked Doratev with producing another vial. Take it for yourself.”
“We are going to mine near the mauling layer again now that the Corship is slowly wising up about the dangers of the sea and how to handle them. Want to spearhead the expedition?”
“No, Morbilliv. My tides in this ship are over so long as Lyssav thinks. She wanted a guide for the sea. I have earnestly guided her here, to this safe haven, and all I got in return is abject horror. And now a Splinter of my lover walks these cursed corridors. The only child to exist deserves care and comprehension; the Splinter deserves a home among this chaos, acceptance I cannot give her.”
“And Lyssav?”
Dirofil stared into the eyes of his brothers. There were many things he wanted to say about their sister, but he decided to keep it simple. “Lyssav deserves a bath. Goodbye, Morbilliv,” Dirofil said as he introduced the vial in his chest and headed for the sphere stair that led to the nearest hatch. “But I won’t give it to her this tide. There’s a sea out there. A sea full of bodies…”
“…A sea full of weapons,” With a heavy heart Morbilliv completed his brother’s thought. “Don’t let the dogs render you thoughtless, brother.”
Morbilliv rushed behind Dirofil and threw his arms around him, embracing his brother in a vicious grip, lifting him from the floor with only enough care to not damage the wings. And as suddenly as he did this, he let go, lowering Dirofil to the floor of the bridge.
They exchanged nods, and Dirofil, long tail meandering behind, began his ascent. “If my dream is to perish with me, Morbilliv, keep Parvov’s alive.”
“As of late I have realized that will be impossible. Parvov’s vision died with him.” Morbilliv sentenced, his eyes sweeping across Dirofil’s height. “The Corship and its crew are now my responsibility, Dirofil. A home for me, and one that I intend to defend until my last idea. Like a dragon Parvov conjured fire out of his being. And like a dragon he dreamed things to life. Ironic, given we cannot dream the Third Dreamt back with us.”
“Farewell, Morbilliv. I wish not to dwell in our grief anymore.”
“Farewell, Dirofil.”
And so he disappeared through the brazen tube that led out the ship, three hands grabbing onto dents that served as rungs as he deftly climbed his way out, leaving his brother alone with himself, such that Morbilliv tuned in to the Corship’s channel to check how it was faring.
Hi Babesi!
Hi Corship!
Hi Babesi!
Immediately he tuned out. Lyssav slept, and no threats had been detected nearby so far, so he had the time to go and bother Doratev and his new assistant.