Garm found that walking through the ancient city of Malgeridum was rather like walking through a recently renovated library. The previously blood-ridden canals of the Low Way of the Rose had been replaced with unending clean water, and the streets and buildings that had been paved with blood had either been torn down or cleaned. The vines atop the ceiling illuminating the place had been replaced with far more reasonable magic lamps. The place couldn’t exactly be called thriving—certainly not as he remembered it in its heyday. But it had been reborn, in a sense.
And for Garm, it told tales uncountable.
He walked from place to place, letting the lives and deaths of all those who had once occupied this place wash over him in a grand tide. He experienced both the sadism and the misery it wrought. He experienced the reckless ambition of necromancers and the desperate hope for freedom in all those they captured. It was so much at once that the experiences often bled together. All of it gave Garm a wonderful bit of nostalgia. After all, he’d been both—the hopeful, and the sadistic.
Even though he knew Argrave was goading him into searching for the remnants of his old life, Garm couldn’t help but play into his hand. Would anyone not be intrigued how they were remembered, how others thought of them? Certainly not. But despite how much he searched… his name seldom appeared. He was there. But not his name.
Instead, Garm was most often referred to as Macheid’s father.
Garm was not remembered as a pioneer on the field of necromancy, an extraordinarily young prodigy, nor even a High Wizard of the Order of the Rose. He had been reduced to nothing more than set piece for his son, Macheid. Garm was a demonstration of his exceptionalism, and of the wanton cruelty that invoked respect in other members of the Order of the Rose.
“The man has a wicked intelligence,” they all had thought. “He discovered how to turn his father into a necromantic being while retaining his intelligence and his ability to speak. It would be unwise to cross such a person.”
And from Garm’s view, Macheid was exceptional. He had become S-rank at nineteen. Nineteen. Not even Argrave, the bastard with the knowledge of the universe in his head, could claim that level of prodigal talent, nor his elven wife he was so proud of. He was quite literally the youngest S-rank spellcaster in the history of the Order of the Rose. He was the youngest Garm had ever heard of ever.
In the face of such exceptionalism, Garm was merely Macheid’s father, whom he hated enough to subject to an eternity of torture.
Ordinary parents might’ve been proud of their son for achieving such heights. They might thank their good stewardship for allowing the child to grow up so wonderfully. Garm only felt a pit of despair that felt as though it was taking bites out of his insides. He hadn’t wanted to be a father. It was a mistake from the very beginning. But he had grown to like a woman a little too much, and acted with less discretion than he usually did. And when the child was born, he hadn’t the heart to kill either of them.
If he had killed them… would he be here, today? The twisted irony of it was that the answer was probably ‘no.’
Garm stood in the center of the square just before the Order of the Rose’s hall. It looked to have been repurposed, turned into a mansion of some kind. People stood guard out front. He saw a plaque that read, ‘Estate of the Countess.’
“Found something?” Argrave asked. He’d been following behind in relative silence.
“It’s like a pool of it, up ahead.” Garm’s gaze swerved from window to window.
“That was the guild hall, right?” The king looked at him. “You had such wonderful attractions like the Menagerie of Morbidity, or stalker vampires. Should I be surprised it’s not exactly clean air?”
“Can I get inside?” Garm asked. “Do you know the countess well enough?”
Argrave nodded. “Yeah, it’s Melanie. I’ll talk to her.”
Garm waited in quietude. All he saw suggested that his son likely died somewhere in there, when the Order of the Rose had fallen in Malgeridum.
#####
As Argrave visited with the newly-established countess of this underground city, Garm wandered the renovated halls. He had expected a calamity of some kind to be the cause of the city’s extermination. It was a part of it—a wave of blood had come through and washed away everyone that didn’t evacuate or establish a sufficient shelter. But that was a built-in defense mechanism to ward away the southern tribes of the Burnt Desert.
It wasn’t some disaster. It was one man.
Garm saw flashes of him gallivanting through the hall in storied glory. He was a freakish thing—a mutant, doubtless born of some experimentation here. He was a spellcaster, too, on par with any in these halls. Any necromancer worth their salt would agree he was a perfect specimen. A beautiful carapace body, arms like a preying mantis, four ape arms for legs, a bug-like head that gave omnidirectional vision… and despite all that, Garm could tell there was intelligence behind all that it did. It acted like a human.
Garm heard shouts in the hall from men who were just about to die—Macheid is dead, they screamed as they fled. His death had shattered and demoralized them. He hastened his steps to learn what there was to learn about his son, and if indeed he’d died ahead. It was impossible to miss, Garm found. Macheid’s death brought with it a certain intensity. Nothing remained of the battle that had been fought, but Garm could feel the imprint of Macheid lingering behind.
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Unlike all of the others, Garm immersed himself in his son’s life and death, taking it deeply without hesitation or reservation. He hoped both the living and the dying would be wrought with pain. He wasn’t disappointed. As a matter of fact, he found his son’s life rather familiar. Both of them had grown up in the service of older men who taught them things only that they might be of better use in helping with their own research. The only noted difference was that Macheid called him ‘father,’ while Garm would’ve been flayed for even considering the idea with his old master.
And just as Garm’s slavery had ended, so too did his son’s—with their owner’s death. His son didn’t feel much of anything as he cut Garm’s head off his body, planting it atop a stake as it bled. His feelings had caused far too much trouble for him to let it burden him today. From there, it was just a steady drive forward. Garm was confused by the monotony of it all. Do this, do that, go here, get this… but in all of it, he couldn’t figure out why.
Macheid, just like Garm, strove upward not knowing why. And at the end of the road… the last day… Garm watched through Macheid’s eyes.
The day began ordinarily, yet at midday, it spiraled out of control. The Guardians of the Low Way fell under sway of something dark. All of the canals blocked off escape. The stone roses illuminating Malgderidum all stopped at once. Then, their hunter came, picking them off one by one. Macheid fought with the others, and when he felt it was prudent, abandoned them. Garm would’ve done the same.
But it didn’t matter. The hunter found Macheid no matter where he ran—all he’d done was give his colleagues an easier death.
Spellfire bridged the gap in the corridor the two of them fought in. Macheid had inherited Garm’s A-rank ascension—the ability to use spells from all parts of the body, not merely the hands. He used it to great effect in the fight to bombard his foe. But it was clear a bombardment was entirely ineffective. The mage-hunter was resilient, and the hordes of Guardians heeded his command. Eventually, Macheid made a mistake, and was hit. But even if he hadn’t, his supply of magic was running low. From the beginning, he was doomed.
As the mage-hunter approached, Macheid realized something. The same magic he’d used to preserve Garm was what allowed this being to be created. It was an irony that Garm rather appreciated. Knowing his fate might be cruel if he did nothing, Macheid cast his next spell not at the foe, but at the ground. The earth twisted, then swallowed him entirely. He died without pain.
Garm finally pulled himself out of the endless haze of death, and was himself again. He walked over to the wall and leaned up against it. He hadn’t realized it, but his whole body was wrong—sweating, nausea, migraine, heavy breathing… he must’ve overdone it. Even still, he smiled.
There was no purpose to any of it. Garm had been forgotten. Macheid had been forgotten. Even that hunter—gods only know his motive—was lost, persisting only in the memories of the dead. All life ended in death. Everything became nothing. Permanence was a myth. Destruction was an inevitable reality.
Garm wished there was something more so desperately. Some afterlife, some way out. But he had died twice, and there had only ever been this. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he would never be happy. Nothing could fix what was fundamentally broken. Perhaps the calamity would be right to come here and wipe all of this away. Perhaps what came after it would be better.
“…Garm? Garm!” Argrave shook him fiercely, and only then did he focus back on reality. “Are you well? You don’t look it, but…”
“How do you become happy?” Garm asked him faintly.
“Happy? What…?” Argrave studied him. “Let’s get you out of here. I shouldn’t have… damn.”
“I don’t much see the point in living,” Garm continued. “It all comes to an end. Everything ends. Why bother if there’s an end?”
“Fuck if I know,” Argrave said in confusion. “Listen. You’re alive now, and that’s all that matters.”
“It’s all so flat.” Garm closed his eyes. “There’s no highs, and there’s no there’s lows. I wanted nothing more than a working body, and now that I have it, it’s the same thing it ever was. Why do I bother?”
“Listen.” Argrave grimaced, steeling himself for what he was to do, then slid his arms under Garm. He stood up forcefully. “I’m going to let you into a science lesson. Maybe you’ll take some solace it in it. Nothing ends, Garm. Nothing ever ends. Everything is in a constant state of flux. If you break a rock, it doesn’t cease to be—it turns into fragments, dust, sand, and scatters elsewhere.”
Argrave looked down at him. “If you burn wood, the various things comprising it don’t vanish. Some of it becomes smoke, or ash, or… whatever. It hasn’t vanished. It’s merely changed. Every bit of energy you exert came from energy you took from something else—food, water, whatever. And the energy doesn’t disappear. It becomes force, which exerts change. Life is change, you bastard. Death is change. Everything is change.”
“I don’t want to change,” Garm responded weakly.
“Change isn’t so bad.” Argrave looked around. “This place changed. I changed. Melanie changed. Durran’s changed, because of you.” He focused back on Garm. “You’re alive again, Garm. That’s a change. You have to ask yourself what kind of change you’re going to be to the world. It’ll echo infinitely, what you do. Every little detail of every little thing you do changes the whole damn world. Especially now. Don’t think in beginnings and ends. Think in infinity.”
“…put me down,” Garm said.
“I was going to teleport back—”
“Just put me down,” Garm interrupted.
Argrave complied begrudgingly, and Garm stood straight.
“Change, is it.” Garm’s voice was flat. “I’ll bring some back.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll bring back who you want me to,” Garm said. “They won’t last long. Months, maybe. But maybe they’ll change things.”
Argrave stared. “What about you?”
“I want an unchanging existence. But just because you want something doesn’t mean you’ll get it.” Garm looked up. “I don’t think I can be happy. Inflicting pain, receiving it. Doing the right thing, doing the wrong thing. Booze, women, drugs, magic… all of yesterday already feels like nothing. But I know you’re happy.” He turned over. “So, I’ll try it your way.”
Argrave opened his mouth, and Garm thought a thank you was coming. Instead, Argrave said something that hit far deeper.
“I’m sorry, Garm.”