Feeling the warmth of his Keige emanating from his pocket, Wren left Clea in search of Roram. Or so she thought. Pip had defied every preconception of his life. He knew there had to be one sole reason why. His people had lied to him. To everyone. They were just unwilling to see it. Or they did but did not care, as Clea had done. He walked on, feeling disowned by one of his closest friends. He knew what Roram would say if he expressed his wishes to accompany Pip across an unknown land to a foreign people. It would be completely disavowing, he knew. If he told anyone. Except maybe one would understand. If he was going to do this, he ought to pay him one more visit. It could be the last.

Passing a newsstand, Wren glanced at the paper and read ‘medical research leads to new highs in efficacy’ with a climb from 99.1% to 99.2%. It had been in the .1 range for such a length of time that he had lost track. He stored the whole segment in his Keige and kept walking, interested in its contents. He was curious what ‘breakthrough’ pushed the new percentage. Glancing through, he began reading about yeast nanoprobes. They had already discovered and used this years ago to uncover viruses in the body, he thought. He kept reading. It appeared that they had genetically engineered a slightly different yeast, one that could detect more strains. Better yet, viruses that had yet to be. These new molecules within the yeast had the potential to predict epidemics. Keige could be implanted with the information via the database soon, further monitoring the body and its many ailments. If true, he thought it should push that number up more than .1%. But there were also little discoveries every day, so who was he to say?

His mind began to wander at the repercussions of actually leaving. It began to breach insanity. His career, monthly stips, his home, his Keige. Would it even be useful away from the city? The Hierarchy fulfilled every desire, addressed every necessity, provided for every endeavor. Except for ones which they wouldn’t approve, of course. If he left, they would inevitably find out why. And they would go straight to Clea and Roram. Anyone close to him. He denied the possibility that they would be harmed. Clea said it herself. “We have the freedom to go anywhere, do anything”. They had learned about the rise and fall of past civilizations. What worked and what failed. Dictators always failed. What they lived in now was, in practicality, nothing like those. They had chosen to reset, even if there was but a mere possibility of glory to be achieved.

Now fighting his initial impulse, this line of thought sought to talk him out of ever leaving. If he thought of everything right with Nidus, he would never leave. Which maybe he should be doing. But Pip needed him, and he knew the topic wouldn’t be approached unless crucial. The mere prospect of adventure, of something different from the usually hum that consumed every day life, was enticing. Yet, it remained foolhardy, he had to admit.

Still breached by the subject, he approached the first landmark on the path to the Center of Advanced Complications and Therapies. Here, his mother lay. For over fifteen years. He was caught off guard as it stood to his left, a beacon for the dead and prison of hope. He stopped at its gate, unmoving, slowly peering up at its sign above, its base the shape reminiscent of a crescent, littered with snow and ice. It read:

Cinaeterium

Memento Mori

It was said that Sapiens of old, generations of generations, poured their limbs of ash here. In those times, they weren’t as conditioned to such weather, and frequently lost fingers, toes, or more. So when they died, their small land of ash had been prepared for them. Unless you were of the few that managed to stay intact throughout life. ‘The superior genetic markers’ they would say, and paved a new way for them elsewhere. Closer to the Hierarchy, for their corpse to be studied most likely.

This was not so for any Corvallis. All of Wren’s folk resided here, quietly nestled under the snow, ash cold as the winter nights. They rarely see visitors anymore, with the forced declined of the population. Wren was the last one, and he seldom came. He would always briskly walk by when visiting his father. But today could be a good time for a visit. Perhaps the last. If this was, he must say goodbye to his ashen mother forever. Could it be done? He faced one finality with her already. How difficult could another be? He turned and walked under the sign. “I will always remember”, he said quietly, the sound of his boots crunching the light snow foreign, resounding throughout the courtyard like a bell.

Tawn Corvallis, Skorium. Over 200 years passed, but his innovations in hide cutting and development were still used today to produce some of the finest jerkins and longcoats. Wren walked slowly among the carved white stones. There was no rush. The rows were long and filled with history, ordered not by contribution. Only time. And he would take his.

Saker Corvallis, Honor Guard. Saker was a defender of the peace for generations, his stories told and retold while Wren was a boy. They seemed more like legends than truth the way he wielded his Keige. Lyre Corvallis, Culinaries. She was known for her extravagant dishes with yeti crabs. She could make anything a delicacy in truth. Emerald “Em” Corvallis, Keeper of the Hold, Watcher of the world. Their most well known ancestor, holding the highest rank in the Hierarchy for over a century. How high the family once flew. But just because a family was in the holy bloodline, doesn’t mean they stayed there.

Wren Corvallis, Architect. His namesake, well known for creating a few buildings, tall and wide with extravagance, but maintaining the rest. It was said he was a dreamer, with many ideas but little made into reality.

“Hello, mother.” Besra Corvallis, Wisdom. He had walked past several stones, feeling the pressure rise from the inevitable. “For a society that values careers, why did they disdain yours, the most important of them all?” Females were always the wisdom keepers regardless of career path, yet Besra devoted her life to it solely. She wasn’t the only one that made such a choice, and wasn’t the only one disrespected. She believed that if knowledge, lessons, and metaphors weren’t memorized and passed down, they would lose their meaning, and ultimately their purpose.

Wren kneeled in front of the stone, staring at her name, now brushing the snow from the ground below it. This could be the final time, would be if he allowed it. He took his Keige and carved a small emblem in the corner of the stone. A crescent moon, tilted, with a small triangle protruding from its center, like a dagger.

“So that I’ll always be with you, never again apart.” He backed up and walked away, the snow covering his heavy laden tracks as quickly as his brisk pace.

The Center quickly made its way into view along the path. Wren approached it and opened the door without thought, seeing once familiar faces. He walked to the counter, gave the name of the patient, and was escorted back. He passed door after door of dark rooms. Some had open doors, allowing the passerby to glance into a misery they never knew existed. Wren assumed these Sapiens were those that had their Keige severed, resulting in deprivations of the mind, or the result of Keige connections gone awry. What the truth was, he was uncertain. These Sapiens varied in age but could be very old. There were surely a myriad of issues that existed in the earliest days of Keige creation, with outcomes they never foresaw or intended. The game of the visionary is a cruel one. Consequences will arrive with or without approval. One must do all they can to assure those consequences aren’t severe. But even then it isn’t enough. The oft hidden nature of the future demands victims.

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“Here you are sir, patient Corvallis.” Wren opened the door to see his father, again sitting in a chair. But it wasn’t that same chair of warm memories before him, full of color and satin. It was a wheelchair for the dying. It pained him to see him like this; almost as much pain as he felt the day his mother died, his father vacant from the scene. He began to drift in and out of time. One step in memory, another in reality. The whole room had been tailored to Kess. The books, the scattered papers, the flowers. All fingerprints of his father. He hadn’t changed after all of these years. It took Wren back to that day with his eyes in disbelief, tears overflowing. His Keige was burning his hand but he was too numb to physical pain. What he was witnessing was infinitely more demanding to any and part of his being. It had started when his mother began attending the gatherings, calling themselves the newfound souls. She had a run in with none other than the Animi Sanctus, the one declaring that he was holiest of the newfoundlings. This gave him power and authority. Wren knew this because she had told it all to him. It was lunacy, he thought, but held his tongue. His mother was showing signs of happiness. No longer a consistent lament, she began acting liberated. And so it was, she was fated to be severed. To this end Wren never dreamt. Neither did his father. The fallout caused an everlasting severance of its own between the man and boy.

“Why didn’t you stop her!” Wren had yelled. “What caused your blindness? What did you choose to not see?”

His father had an answer but remained silent. The boy would not understand, not in his grief. No answer would satiate such rage. His beautiful mother, taken from him, his father watching as it happened. The long talks, the walks, the moments of silence so many times shared. There would be no more. They became eternal memories. She was beauty, she was innocence. With trepidation, she represented everything right about the world for him. In her existed the possibility of prosperity. It was through her guidance, unlike the society, that thriving life could peer through. He could still recall waiting at her door, listening to her hum, waiting for more stories. Stories of many roads, gates, wonders, running waters, and simplicity. Her death became the slow escape of such ideals.

Something his father clung to deeply in his beliefs was that of free will. Rather than control, he chose the more difficult route. To lead by example, encourage, inspire, and teach in hopes that whoever may come in his path would choose the way destiny set beforehand. It was this immense burden he set upon his shoulders that led to his downfall with his only son. Wren looked upon his father, feeling the intensity of his anger begin to rise from within. Just like before, his Keige began to burn but he didn’t care. This is why he no longer came. He could not control that which had gotten out of its cage.

The swelling in the room reached an equilibrium, Kess now looking at him. “What brought you back, Corvallis?”

“Some may call it a desire, others a dream, and still others fate. What do you say, Kess?”

“I say you’ve already made up your mind. I do not wish to be mocked in my dying days. Especially not by my son.” He loved him so, but Wren would no longer accept such offerings. In order to receive love, one must have the capacity to give it. Wren had neither.

“I thought this time may be different. I thought I could see the world in a different light by now. But it is still ugly. Even my subconscious despises it. My family is dead, and I am lost.”

“What would make this time different?” Kess asked, not pressing the latter part of his statement.

“You dreamt of seeing the Udo. I met one. I planned not to tell you. The only reason I do now is because I am going to take him home.”

Kess sat with his mouth agape in disbelief. By Wren’s estimation he saw impossibility across his face. Danger even.

“And you withhold him from me now? So I will never meet one of them. You would choose this path?”

Hearing it now, through all the resentment and pain still stung Wren. He wasn’t one for vengeance, retribution, or the destruction of dreams. It wasn’t him that made this decision. But he couldn’t change courses now. The choice had already been made. The flicker of doubt ran across his face. He looked away from the shame that met him in that cold room.

“You must stop seeing me as you want, but as I am. You and I… we aren’t the same. I respected that from the day I met you, so small in my arms. Because of that respect, I learned who you were and knew exactly who you’d become. Corvallis. Son, may your light never go out. We may have lost our beloved Besra, but we still have you. My Lenten rose.”

With that, Wren left. He was weak and dizzy from the heavy load of hatred and conflict. The blood ran hot. The body was willing. The mind had succumbed. What did his soul say? He heard nothing. His mind ran to Clea in that moment, to a memory that had so often carried him. Though the twists and turns of life had brought him here, he tried to recall what started it all, and what kept it going.

-

“Everyone feels self serving. The Keige were supposed to change everything.”

“Everything did change, but not how you wanted it,” Clea said. “They’re just stories to us anyway. We weren’t there before they existed nor when they were created. We only live in the reaction. The consequence. Whether that is better or worse, who can know now? We are isolated and alone in that regard.” She changed tone as she reached the end of her thought, surprising herself. They both now felt emotions unexpected.

She leaned forward, ending the tension. “Do you have a dream, Wren? Not the superfluous kind. But the ones that drive you, inspire you to do things you’d never imagined.”

“Yes. I couldn’t always identify it. It went by a different name many years, changed shape often, but its nature was consistent.”

“Then someone else in this world will also believe in it. Even if millions here don’t. Even if millions despise you. It only takes one to change the course of your life. To forge it into your destiny.”

“If I go all my days searching for that one and never find them, what then? Did I miss them? Or did they even exist?”

Clea bowed her head, drawing a thin smile across her lips. “Wren, never the optimist. If you don’t find them, then it was you who lost the way.”

-

The Keige did not change everything. Death remained. There was no explanation for it. The bane of existence still prowled about the world, forever seeking victims. It sought his father in due time, well before it ought to. Of all the power the Sapiens had wrought, they were ever powerless in the end. Wren sought not to think in such absolutes, though. The world, if filled with binaries, was but innumerable in its caricatures of decimals. It was in that sense he noticed death as both infinite and finite, just as life was. Such control over one and so little over another. The air of mystery that shrouded this discrepancy felt unnatural to him. What his people had done could be both beauty and evil incarnate. Of which prevailed more he did not know.

Wren shouldn’t have gone to see his father, he saw that now. The hope that has briefly existed now vanished like water splashing over his face after a deep sleep. Those zealots took everything from him. He felt broken. To be given so much but feel so little. It made him feel a fool. He took his Keige out to examine it, to remind himself of the carvings. How closely it resembled his father’s, with the exception of deep grooves like lightning shooting all around it. The handle had been chosen by his mother, the carvings by his father. He didn’t have any opinion on the matter when it had been made. Small wings extended on each side, exactly mirrored. “For the raven”, his mother told him. “For our family.” The carvings twisted in and around each of the symbols. They swirled, increasing in thickness then decreasing, all around the silver like wind. Wind was what inspired his father to have his look this way. Down they ran to the edge where the three symbols appeared again on each tooth. “From beginning to end,” he whispered to his mind’s eye. He steeled himself. Pip owed him some answers.