> Men see division and union act in opposition and name the two opponents, or ascribe some imagined animosity to their meeting. This is not so. The acts of men differ greatly from those of the divine, and even in opposition there is no enmity.
>
> The two are brothers, raised in the same house, which they remember in different ways. They are father and son, each taking what came before and making it his own. They are friends, who contest between each other to the improvement of both.
>
> And they are divine, therefore they are none of these things in truth. Yet knowing this, is it wise to term falsehood and truth opposed? May one not draw the eye to the other?
>
> If there is a truth, it is this: the world is divine, and it remembers when it was one whole. It longs for that union to come again. Yet - in union, longing shall change, and endure. The world in union shall relent, and once more call back its brother, its father, its friend, and show it kindness.
>
> The world began in union, and so shall it end.
>
> The world ends in union, and so shall it begin.
The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Union. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)
[https://i.imgur.com/KwOG9kX.png]
Charred glass crazed underfoot as Michael walked down the crater towards the lone man at its center. Luc was standing still, unmoving, giving no sign of recognition. He swayed dazedly. His face was a red horror, eyeless, slick with weeping fluids that puddled in its crevices and scars. There was little left to indicate that it was Luc - and perhaps it wasn’t, not anymore.
It mattered little. The mute, ragged man swelled to fill Michael’s vision, drawing his focus. An acid note fouled the air, bloody and deep, pounding in time with his heartbeat. Anger. It was Sobriquet’s, and some small part came from Amira - but Michael found that the largest share was his own. The scorching fire of Zabala and Antolin’s deaths still pulled at his chest, and it was swiftly joined by the others that had fallen since Luc had seized Leire’s soul for his own. Vernon, Vera, Sofia, Isolde, Saleh, Lars, Charles, Unai, Carolus - Voss and the rest of Michael’s men. Leire herself. The needless death loomed behind Michael, within him, unasked-for and unwanted, darkening the fractured clouds above.
“Was it worth it?” Michael called out, his pace quickening. His eyes were locked forward, his jaw set. “You got what you wanted. No more war. No more suffering. No more armies trampling over the downtrodden, no greedy men vying for power-”
He stopped short, paces away, his chest about to burst with heat and electric tension humming in his jaw, his heart beating against the wet and acrid air. “This is your peace, you bastard. Was it worth it?” He took a step forward. Glass shattered around him, rippling the shallow, steaming puddles. “You didn’t even have the courage to survive to the end. You can’t hear a word I’m saying. You fucking - coward!”
Michael clawed at the remnants of the storm, finding in them an echo of the rage that crackled uselessly through his body; he sent it flooding down on Luc in torrents. Lightning struck from the dust and steam above, wreathing the ruined man in white and pulverizing the fragile hot glass that lay over the mud. Thunder echoed again and again as he wrung the clouds dry.
And then they were spent, at last. The air hung heavy with humid ozone, obscuring the center; a puff of wind dragged the haze away, though, and revealed Luc still standing, untouched.
Slowly, though, the ruined face rose from its contemplation of the mud. Eyes that were not eyes slid across the three of them - then brought their focus to Michael. On the bright glow that dwelled within him. The mouth cracked open, drooling blood, and a low groan of hungry need rattled out from within. Michael felt the grasping soul that hung about Luc’s body lash outward, striking with blade and light and despair; he jumped to the side, but the attack followed him just as quickly. It crashed towards him, breaking as Amira thrust herself in its path.
The souls clung to her, gnawing, whispering, insidious and vile. She staggered back, and Michael lashed out with Sever. Blades parted the air near her, shredding her clothing and hair; the souls fell away with discordant wailing. Amira spat blood into the water and straightened up, pale and breathing hard. Her eyes were dilated, focused on Luc.
“Don’t rush in,” Sobriquet warned, her veil settling around them. “The bomb wasn’t enough to kill him. We need to be careful-”
“I heard him,” Amira breathed, looking at the tottering body still shuffling aimlessly towards where it had last scented them, searching for some trace of its prey. “Saleh’s voice, saying my name.” She blinked again, then shook herself and glared angrily back at Michael. “We need to kill him, end this abomination. Give the souls peace.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Michael grunted. “Sera, keep him from focusing on us, stay out of the center. Amira, back me up.”
He spread his arms, trying to find a calm breath amid the tumult. Stanza grasped at pieces of the chaos around them - carefully, not disturbing the obfuscating veil that Sobriquet held between them and the mindless thing in the crater. When Michael felt like he had forged enough of a beachhead, he sent his will flooding out along Stanza’s lattice, borrowing once again from Amira’s blazing adamant. “Restless voices wailing, crying,” he said. “Those who lingered past their dying-”
He broke off with a muttered oath as the mass of souls pushed outward, lashing out against his efforts with animal fury. Whatever mote of consciousness lurked within had responded to the attack on its control; while Sobriquet’s veil still held, the sheer mass of souls swarming angrily around the crater was threatening enough. Blades flickered through the air, light and dark pulsing randomly. Michael felt the slithering, crude touch of a soul reach towards his mind, telling him that there was nothing good left in this world, that the only path of any worth was to rebuild on ash and sand-
“Some things still worth preserving stand,” he rasped, curling his fingers into a fist. He grasped the offending soul, seeking out the putrid whiff of chaos it was propagating. “Despair cannot keep us from trying.” Light bound it, calmed it, cemented it into the burgeoning lattice that Stanza pressed upon the world, even as blades lashed out to pick at the webwork; screaming, tearing, rending, breaking-
“I will not yield to this unmaking,” Michael said, standing firm. His own blade flickered out to sweep away that soul. “Our will shall triumph, fortifying.” The attack fell away, and his grasp upon the crater pressed outward, stronger than ever - but it was too much for Sobriquet’s veil to conceal, now, and the souls veered inward, finding the source of the troublesome contradictions in their midst.
The souls spilled over with hatred, with pain, but above all with fear. It was an overwhelming cacophony, one that rippled the sand and sent fresh fractures through the hot glass around them, drawing spray from the water and tracing patterns through the air. Fear, fear - of power, of souls. Of men too weak to bear their might-
Sobriquet was already staggering back towards Michael; he wrapped one arm around her and moved closer to Amira. Sustain was a sun wrought of diamond, wrapped into the lattice, flooding it with strength and permanence. Michael could barely see Amira herself through its radiance. Her face was streaked with blood, her hair frayed and singed, but her eyes - they still sparked, set, fixed, heedless of the tears flowing freely downward.
“We will not fall to pain and fright,” Michael said, quietly, calmly. Stanza’s advance outward was speeding; disorder fell to gold wherever it reached. “We-”
Would you like me to read to you, little one? Amira’s head whipped around; Michael felt the pang of anguish from her as Saleh’s voice floated on the air, ethereal, half-heard, yet unmistakable. Pain flooded through her; the adamant ember flickered - and into that infinitesimal gap slithered a thousand more tendrils from the whole.
Michael staggered back as her support waned; holes tore in the field of order he had made. The lattice frayed at the edges, and howling ghosts charged inward. He turned to Amira, stretching out his free hand; her head came up. Her eyes met his, tearful, red-rimmed-
And then those eyes disappeared behind a convulsion of steam and light. Michael’s vision swam. The mob of souls writhed around them, screaming, twisting with newfound momentum.
“Oh, fuck,” Michael breathed, taking an instinctive step back. “Sera-”
“Not much I can do about this!” She pressed against his side; the hands grasping at them were bolder, stronger, the leering faces more real with every wet breath they drew. “You had him! You just need to finish it!”
Michael grimaced, abandoning what progress he had made to concentrate on keeping the chaos at bay around the two of them. He drew a line, redrew it, cut away anything that dared cross. “Amira was holding it all together,” he gasped. “Without her, I can’t make headway. Everything she was giving me, they have now.”
“And they got her even so,” Sobriquet retorted. She tore her eyes from the encroaching mass to glare up at Michael. “They came at her sideways, snuck through! Stop trying to meet Luc head-to-head. He’s not some unbeatable general, he’s a scared, fucked-up kid! He’s-” She paused, breathing hard, her brow furrowed.
Michael risked turning a portion of his sight her way. “Sera?” he asked.
She pulled away from him to stand to his front, keeping carefully within the narrow perimeter he had made; it was small, and shrinking with every moment that passed. “It’s still Luc, in the end. It’s all built on him, and he’s a rotten foundation. Don’t attack the souls. Attack Luc. Find him alone, and use his fear against him.”
“Easier said than done,” Michael muttered. “There’s nothing left of him now. Just a shell. If anything of him survived, it’s wrapped deep under a thousand angry souls.”
She grinned. “A problem for some. Fortunately, I am Sobriquet.” She leaned in and kissed him. “Follow my lead.”
Michael looked at her, confused, his sight twisting in strange ways after the surprise of that sudden kiss. “What are you doing?”
She lifted her eyebrow. “Remembering the lesson that Sever taught me.” Her face shifted oddly; Michael bent more of his sight towards her. “Thank you for coming after me, that day. You didn’t have to.”
An icy blade slid into Michael’s gut as his sight turned fully upon Sobriquet and found nothing there but a phantom. She had slipped away, outside of his safe perimeter. “Sera-!”
She smiled at him, tears glittering at the corners of her eyes. “I love-”
The phantom disappeared, and Michael stood alone. The souls around him leapt and danced once more in the throes of power as another great soul spread through them, joining with Amira’s to give them form, presence. They were an indistinct mass no longer. A legion of smoke-wrought and twisted beings began to form around where Michael stood, glimmering in a heart-wrenchingly familiar way.
Michael dropped to his knees; his mind was blank. It echoed with nothing but pain, for there was-
“Nothing,” he murmured. More and more souls took form in the steaming caldera, under clouds that had once more begun to swirl ominously inward. Michael could see flashes forward of how they would spill out from that ruined place, riding the tide of the storm, sundering the remnants of humanity from the earth wherever their feet fell.
More came, and more. Twisted forms of Ardans, of Safid, of Daressans and people Michael could not place. Thin and bloated children, men with limbs twisted into unnatural skews, a forest of blank eyes and gaping jaws pointing aimlessly-
Until the wave rebounded upon itself, and in the center of it all one more figure formed. A tall, thin man with a messy shock of dark hair and angular features. He turned his face to Michael, shadowed lips wearing a sad smile. “Nothing,” he agreed. One and a thousand ghostly hands came up, beckoning. “It’s time.”
Slowly, Michael rose to his feet and walked towards Luc, numb, blind to the path between. The souls in the middle parted to make way, until there was only Luc. He stood alone on a still mirror of water, still smiling, his hand outstretched towards Michael - a mismatched hand, with a thin line at the wrist.
“Power only has one end,” Luc said. “Unless we end it ourselves, and make something better.”
Michael stood before him with the vast army looking on; he felt as though he stood within the palm of that hand, waiting for the fingers that had once been his to curl inward and crush him. The souls pressed in around him, whispering, jeering.
And one voice amid the tumult whispered: Follow my lead.
A veil lifted, and Michael took a slow, deep breath. “You’re right,” he said. “There was only ever one end.” He reached out with his own borrowed hand, slender and unscarred, and felt the buzzing assault of those ethereal fingers begin to worm their way into him, claiming him for their own.
He tightened his grip, met Luc’s eyes, and with a twist of Sever’s soul obliterated both hands to the elbow.
Luc reeled back, staring at the ghostly stump in disbelief. “You-”
“It is my soul,” Michael said. “And mine alone.” He surged forward, his remaining hand wrapping its fingers around Luc’s neck. Spark pried at him - not deeply. It only drank from the fear that had ever seethed at the surface of Luc’s mind. “I feared it. Feared it more than you did. I didn’t want the death, the pain, the power that came with it, but now I’m here for every drop of it. Everything you took from me. Everything the doctor gave you.”
His fingers constricted, digging into unreal flesh. “Give them back to me.”
“You can’t!” Luc gasped. “We are - joined! Those souls came to me!”
“That connection has been severed,” Michael replied. “The balance is ready to tip, and it tips to me.” He looked Luc in the eye, willing truth to his words - willing that the loss of their hands was more than just the destruction of a symbol. “What power do you deserve, Luc?”
Michael watched the afterimage of the other man’s eyes, seeing them widen in sudden fear and panic, in denial. This was the critical moment. He poured as much power as he dared into Spark, willing Luc to believe him - to believe everything he had said as truth, fundamental and real. It was more of a contest than Michael had hoped, for only some of the thing he held was the fearful man Sera had predicted. The rest was twisted, angry, mindlessly destructive; it raged against the theft of its power, beyond logic, beyond fear. The war raged behind Luc’s eyes, eternal and instant.
It mirrored the war behind Michael’s own eyes, one he furiously walled away from the outside. No hint of it could leak through to Luc, for any whiff of Michael’s doubt would be fatal. He fought for the bold words he had made, scorching away a hundred dark voices that said he was bluffing - that none of it could possibly be true.
“Let it go, Luc,” Michael said softly, reaching back across long and dark days to find a smile he could offer. He pulled Luc’s fears upright, his certainty that he was not meant for this; he poured it into Stanza and wrote it upon the world. The balance teetered, resisting; each side bore an unthinkable weight.
More was required, but Michael had little left to give. The two men strained, frozen, the air itself cracking under the titanic pressure of their contest.
There was, in the end, only one option left. Michael reached past Stanza, past Spark, past all of the other souls that swelled within him until he reached the one at the center - the one that had started everything. The soul that had been his last resort when all else had failed. Michael had first asked it to save Jeorg, then Clair; each time, it had bent itself to protect what was dear to him.
Now he faced it again, upright, with eyes open, and asked for everything. Slow ripples shifted in the dark, and it responded with the same formless, wordless question.
Why?
He still did not have words to answer, but none were needed. His view shifted to Sera’s smiling face, to Jeorg quietly smoking his pipe. Dinner with Sofia and her friends. To Ricard and Helene, to Leire and Antolin sharing a knowing smile.
The low souls within him shone brightly; their light filled him. It spilled outward, beyond, sketching the boundaries of a great tree whose crown stretched far beyond his body to touch the lives of millions - with hope and fear and comfort and doubt and love.
Or so it had been, but those lives had been torn away. He felt their absence keenly, felt the contribution of his own failures to the state of the world. Michael saw the gulf between what he was, and what he might have been - what he might yet be. It tempted him with despair, for he fell far short of that ideal.
But despair was not the answer. The way ahead remained, and he would walk it - no matter the cost.
A shudder ran through the core of his being. Another thought coalesced, deeper than words could tell. It spoke of recognition. A path opened before him, waiting for a foot to fall.
Michael raised his head, letting his eyes slide slowly open. “Winding, wending, neverending,” he murmured.
There was a shifting beside him; a movement disturbed the air. Michael smelled leaves and wine, pipe smoke and summer flowers. “Broken paths require mending.”
An old man’s voice spoke in time with his, deep and amused. That soul walked forward, and from the mass of souls surrounding them came another figure; Michael’s heart jumped to see Sera’s face there, beaming up at Jeorg.
The old man spread his arms. She walked towards him with a bright smile on her face, enveloping him in a full hug. “Ever searching, seeking, finding,” she sighed happily, even as Michael mouthed the words. “To their destinations binding.”
Michael felt lightning striking at the core of his being, the question of whether or not he was right to claim this power shattering away into mist; for Sera, it had never been a question. Warmth filled him, spilling outward along branches of golden light, touching each of the clustered souls in turn.
“Scattered souls of humankind,” Michael said, his words echoed by a soul with raven hair. Sofia stepped forward from behind him, her fingers tracing along the branching light, tears streaming from open eyes. “In whispers to the world reminding-”
The light drew out a radiant soul from the multitudes, its ancient face wrinkling with wry amusement. “Of origins once lost in time,” Leire and Michael said together. “A single candle pure and blinding.”
The light had reached the farthest corners of the milling crowd, wreathing them in gold. Luc dropped to his knees. The stump of his arm was frayed, dissolving into the morning air, and his eyes turned up towards Michael in wordless entreaty.
Michael met them and closed the fingers of his remaining hand. The strings drew tight; more faces emerged from the uncertain depths. A bald man in a white robe walked hand in hand with a smiling, dark-haired woman.
“Halt the river from ascending,” Michael spoke, echoed by a voice of darkness and flame. Saleh raised his hand, smiling broadly.
“Bend to me what was unbending,” Michael spoke, echoed by a voice of unyielding granite. Amira’s eyes were half-lidded, sleepily content.
“From this mortal flesh transcending,” Michael spoke, echoed by a voice of dripping blood. A thin soul with sharp features lurked within the crowd, his face tilted back in ecstasy. He raised his hands, exultant.
“Shining, scouring, breaking,” Michael spoke, echoed by a voice of sharpest steel. Friedrich glared down at Luc - but the other voices were fading. There was only one word left to speak, and it hovered there - waiting, ready, oddly dissonant from the rest. Yet Michael had heard it before.
Luc closed his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, and waited for his-
“Ending.”
Michael’s voice was not sound, nor speech. It was not a command.
It was.
And Luc was not.
But Michael, oh-
Michael was everything.
Uncounted thousands of souls flooded into him, raw and bleeding, still reeking of the mindless chaos they had stewed in for so long. His awareness expanded, fractured; fire clawed at every edge of his existence.
Time blurred. That first instant might have lasted days, or years; each heartbeat was marked with a million voices speaking, and he heard each one with inescapable clarity. Slowly, painfully, Michael tried to focus. He grasped at the tatters of his self, gathering them together - drawing once more the shattered lines that defined him.
The souls raged and wailed in his path, but Michael shut them away from his view. They were not the souls he needed, not first. Stanza, Sever, Spark, Sibyl. The familiar core of his being was easiest, the bright fragments slotting together around the burgeoning star of his low souls, sheltering the smaller lights from the tempest. He reached out once more for Sustain, finding Amira’s soul shining steady as ever, a rock in the river.
Saleh clung to it, Smoke bound tightly to him; his form was tattered, ill-used, but shining with radiant love where he was close to his protege. Michael extended a hand, and Amira took it. He felt a resigned amusement from her, the familiarity of one last test-
She slipped across to Michael wordlessly. Saleh’s presence pulsed, agitated. A great part of him held back from Michael, even as solidity spread through him, shoring up his presence. Yet - the greater part of him edged closer. Determination rang out in a steady drumbeat.
Saleh Taskin was never a man to be denied, even by his own pride. Fire welled up from the struggling soul, scorching away the remnants of itself that pulled back from Michael’s offer of sanctuary. When the fire died away, a wan, exhausted shred of a soul took Michael’s proffered hand. The faint echo of laughter sounded - still the same resonant joy that Michael remembered, but weary. Kind.
It faded in a rush of flame, warm flickering tongues reaching out into the dark until they found a cold sun floating there. Leire was already waiting for her lost half, wreathed in her vindication; she and Michael drew it in together.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Light burst. Ice crackled. Michael’s soul writhed and grew, pushing back against the howling mass around him - but there was one piece missing. He took Sibyl in hand and went looking through the dark, searching with quiet need for the soul he missed most-
There was a ripple of amusement from beside him. Michael looked, bemused, and found Sera standing there; the indistinct form of Sobriquet floated close by. For an instant he saw her face clearly, smiling, gently mocking his audacity in thinking he could find her-
But she stepped in close to kiss him, long and slow. Michael tasted honey and wine, and felt the warmth of her bleed slowly into him, filling the cracks of his soul until there were none left.
He took a shuddering breath, opening his eyes.
The landscape behind him was still a smoking wreck. Scars and smoldering rock were all he could see, acrid fumes burning his lungs with every breath. His arm dripped a slow red stain on the ruined land. Numb, half-dazed, he trudged away from the crater at the center of it all.
A cloud of souls followed him, hungry, lost, clamoring for entrance to the glowing whole that he carried in his chest - but he could not grant it to them. Not here, not now. His mind rebelled at the idea of cracks in the armor that he had so dearly purchased.
Instead, he walked. Michael did not have a destination in mind save that he wanted to go away from the desolation at the storm’s center. Into the fading clouds he went, across mirror-bright plains and muddy wastes, finding nothing but dead rock and the scraps of what had come before.
It was exhausting, draining. His bones seemed wrought from gold, shining and crushingly heavy, dragging along a leaden weight of grief and torment as Luc’s souls swarmed at his heels.
For all his sight, Michael could not bear to look. The world had been scoured clean where the storm touched it. It was yet more death pressing upon him. He felt trapped, constrained, yet he dared not stop lest the souls find the opening they sought and rip him to pieces.
A broken, splintered tree stuck up from the mud, its top ripped away by wind and its bark hanging in shreds from what branches remained. It felt like a tombstone. He staggered close, letting his hand rest lightly on the bark-
His eyes opened. A faint thread of life still lurked within the tree, dim and tenacious. Michael sank to his knees between two of its roots. A laugh rasped out from his throat; he wrenched himself around until his back was against the ragged bark.
For the first time since he had started walking, he reached out with a soul. Stanza. He cradled the remnants of the tree close to him, trying to piece together the fragments of its path. There were not many ways that still led onward, but a few remained.
“You and me both,” Michael murmured. He lay sprawled in the cold mud until the sun rose to its height, then fell once more, gently coaxing the flame of life back until he felt sure that it would not gutter out.
When it burned steadily, brightly, he allowed himself a smile - one that faded when he turned his focus away to see the multitude of souls still hanging there in the dark. With a resigned sigh, he reached out to touch the nearest one. It battered against his hand, mindless, enraged; Michael tried to soothe it as best he could.
It had been one of the people who lived here, in what had been Ghar: a farmer with a quiet life that did not survive the darkening of the sky. The soul screamed of injustice, of hatred for power. It was not right that the whims of one man should be able to sweep away everything that he had built and loved.
Michael agreed. The soul’s rage was exhausting, almost more than he could bear to contemplate, but it was not wrong. He held his weariness close and kept it from showing.
Power existed, he replied. Even without souls. To shun it was to permit others to use theirs as they pleased. Gently, he opened the barest crack in his armor, letting his light shine forth. Here was the power that stopped the storm. Not perfection, nor an ideal - but power nevertheless. Would the soul consent to join that power, or was its hatred so great that it would prefer the emptiness of the void instead?
The soul paused, tasting the wisp of light that leaked out. It asked if it would have to give up some of itself to enter there.
“I did,” Michael replied. “It’s not so bad.”
The soul pulsed with weary amusement and slid in through the gap, hate falling away like ash in its wake. The light within grew that much brighter; Michael shut it away once more as the ravenous mob outside charged towards him, battering themselves against golden adamant.
Michael sighed, and reached out to touch the next soul, and the next. Some accepted him eagerly, others gave long, bitter tirades in response to his offer. He let them all play out, posing the same question at the end. A few chose their hatred, but true hatred was rare. More often it was fear in masquerade, and those souls gladly chose safety and belonging when it was offered.
It was long work. The rise and fall of the sun lost its meaning. He paused every so often to check on the tree beside him, the only other survivor within that storm. Sometimes he meddled. It didn’t need his help anymore, not really, but Michael didn’t see the harm in helping regardless. It had earned a few advantages, for what it had endured.
But the souls still crowded the air around him, insistent, hungry. Every moment spent on the tree was another moment of torment for them, so Michael did not indulge too often. He sifted. Luc had killed so many, uprooted countless lives under the wrath of that storm; Michael sometimes felt that the crowd was larger now than it was when he began, souls arriving unseen at the edges of his vision and joining the throng.
Once he reached out to a soul and found Gerard. He made the same offer to the weathered revolutionary that he had made to the rest - but Gerard declined. There were others he hoped to join, and they had ended in oblivion long before Michael’s time. The weariness in his voice was all too familiar; Michael did not keep him long. He gave him what he asked for, and moved on to the next.
Some souls he recognized, but only barely. It felt harder each time to remember his life as it had been when these people had faces and voices of their own, in a green world with a blue sky.
Soul after faceless soul passed within, or chose oblivion, until Michael reached out for the next and found - nothing. Slowly, he raised his head. Sight that had not seen in far too long scoured the dead landscape around him. There was only the tree. It had grown, somewhat, establishing itself into what soil remained. It endured, but it did not thrive; there was little enough here to sustain it. Michael looked ahead and saw roots depleting the soil, wind and water scouring the loose dirt away.
It was a doomed existence. There was no path ahead for it, no chance for seedlings to take root or for the soil to replenish. Michael could only nudge it onto a better path for so long. Eventually, it would die, and Michael would be-
Alone.
The thought struck him with uncommon force. Not truly alone, perhaps, for he could always get up and continue walking. Eventually, he would find the edges of the storm’s devastation. There would be people there, and life, and that life would continue.
But some would inevitably become tied to Michael, and an imbalance would result. Michael would increase; the world would diminish, and he would once again find himself alone, again and again, until there was nowhere left to wander.
It was a sad thought; it robbed him of the will to stand and walk elsewhere. The old spectre of the void loomed in his vision, inevitable and inescapable. Once more, he grappled with it. It seemed especially harsh that not only should he be fated to end in emptiness, but that he should be fated to create it.
If you don’t like your path, you can’t blame your feet.
The voice came to him from dusty memory, he had to pause for a moment to remember who had said it. Jeorg. Another lonely man, who had retreated into the solace of his garden. Who had made a sanctuary for himself, and only himself. Michael remembered his tears, the anguished look on his face when he asked if he was wrong to have let the world crumble around him.
Slowly, Michael turned his sight within. He was almost unbearable to look at, now, a luminous thing clad in power and teeming with blissful millions. A beautiful existence, rich and peaceful and - solitary.
He looked for one moment more, then let out his breath in a long, slow rush. Light began to shine through small gaps in the armor, widening with hesitant shivers - but nothing untoward happened. There was nothing left to protect against. Michael continued to breathe, focusing his mind on the air as it traced over his tongue. Air crept in, rushing out with an ineffable weight that it had lacked before.
And nothing changed. He closed his eyes and kept breathing, focusing on the air, the moisture carried on his breath. The sun rose and fell. Rain followed, but not the scouring rains that had come before. Simple, mundane storms washed through the land, and wind blew from across the sea. Michael breathed in, and out, letting the simple rhythm of his life caress the world.
The light within him shone into the void around him. The dark vanished, replaced by emptiness - but that emptiness was not terrifying anymore, not the abyss that had haunted him for so long. It was mere space. Potential. And still the light shone.
Not a strongly as before, though. Each breath carried some of it away, and each moment the light poured out diminished what he held. Some part of Michael recoiled when he first noticed, and he had to fight against the urge to claw that power back; he almost laughed at the impulse.
Unless we end it ourselves, and make something better. The words echoed on his breath, reverberated within him. There was a truth there, misguided as Luc had been.
Life may need to end, to be life at all. Those words, too, colored the air on his lips. There was falsehood there, wise as Jeorg had been.
Michael frowned, the easy rhythm of his breath hitching. He watched the slow, luminous bleeding as it traced out over the land. The loss of power still rankled; it felt hollow, as though everything he had endured had been for nothing. He could envision it clearly, could see the paths spidering out into the far future - and drawing together, repeating everything that had come before.
There was an odd sense of vertigo, as he plumbed those futures, as though that ripple had mirrored back and forth many times already, rebounding upon itself in ceaseless fury. For a moment he glimpsed a terrifying vastness, the world itself breathing around him in its own long time.
Beginning, and ending.
It almost collapsed in on him, in that horrid moment, as he grasped what his soul truly was - what he was meant to be. He was the fire that made way for new growth, the flood and the storm. The ravages of winter making way for the spring. A soul that could not help but grow, and break, and start anew.
“And wait to pass to the next,” Michael murmured, feeling half-delirious. “You were laughing, you bastard.” He curled his fingers into the ground, feeling the mud slide between them until they reached the unyielding wood of the tree’s roots. “No. I refuse.”
It all needs to mean something, or what’s the point?
He staggered to his feet, his vision swimming with future paths branching away into infinity, but always colliding back upon themselves, always bending back to a dead and blackened land - until it was too much, and the light leaked away to begin anew.
“What an evil soul,” he spat. Michael called upon the light within him, feeling his bones creak under the strain. He opened his mouth, anger pooling on his tongue, but another voice spoke before he could.
“Evil is a thing that man makes.” Jeorg leaned against the struggling tree behind him. He was not smiling; his tone was sombre, and his eyes never strayed from Michael.
Michael staggered to the side, then fell backwards into the mud. His legs felt weak, unsteady; he could not recall how long it had been since he had stood. “I remember Jeorg saying that,” he retorted. “Not you. Did you wear his face so I wouldn’t question the path I was on? So that I’d come to view you as a friend, an ally?”
Jeorg lowered himself into the mud, sitting at the base of the tree. “You gave me this face. The face of a mentor, a source of power. Someone with secrets they chose not to share. Someone who set you on your course.” He shrugged. “Someone who is a part of you, now.”
Michael raised the stump of his arm; he was surprised to see that it had healed over. He hadn’t spent any effort to that end, but under the mud there was lumpy, scarred skin. “And why shouldn’t I cut you away too?” Michael asked.
“Wouldn’t fix the problem,” Jeorg sighed, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair. “The world lives in cycles. This is one of them.”
“Everything has to die?” Michael demanded. “Scoured away to nothing, with all traces of what came before lost to oblivion?”
Jeorg’s lips drew into a line; he drew his pipe. “There are analogies,” he said. “On a small scale. Forests that grow unsustainably. Too alive, too dense. They depend on fire to sweep through every few decades.” He lit the pipe; the flare cast a red glow on his face. “The old brush dies away, and a new forest sprouts. Life is too powerful a force to exist without balance.”
“I refuse to believe that,” Michael rasped. “That everything in the world, good and bad - that it all has to fade, with nothing left to show that it was there. What use is it to clear away the ground for more life to thrive if that life is doomed to fail in the end?”
That provoked a small, rueful smile. Jeorg took a small draw on his pipe, then exhaled through his nose. “What use was the forest?” he asked. “A balanced system propagates. It survives. Things are the way they are because they work.”
“I don’t agree with your use of the term.” Michael struggled to sit upright. “Men are more than plants, more than dumb animals. We have a light to us. We have something that doesn’t exist anywhere else.” He pounded his fist against his chest. “I have so many of them here, with me. That means something. It has to.”
Jeorg nodded. “It might,” he conceded.
“You don’t know?” Michael gave him an incredulous look. “Forgive me for not trusting you.”
“I’m not the part of you that knows how to lie,” Jeorg chuckled. “It’s why I know more than I should. Even if I were more than that-” He broke off, taking a long pull from his pipe. “What you did is new. Unpredictable, too. Hard to say.”
Michael glared at him; Jeorg sighed and made a weary gesture with his pipe. “Do you remember what you said, before the soul came to you?”
Michael frowned, dredging up memories of a black void and a river of lights, of a day that seemed multiple lifetimes ago. “Just let me go,” he said. “Unless you’ve got-”
“Something. Better.” There was a pause after Jeorg spoke. His smile had fallen away, and his pipe was gone from his hand. “The trip from void to void wasn’t enough for you. You wanted it to mean something. You wanted purpose.”
“You have to be joking,” Michael muttered. “Just for that?”
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” Jeorg shot back. “Because you looked ahead and saw that nothing had changed. Nothing was different.” The old man’s eyes bored into him, and they had gone black, black as night. “You’re still going to end in that abyss, and all the world with you.”
Michael’s eyes came up to meet Jeorg’s, staring into the blackness. “I will not,” he said.
“Denial,” Jeorg scoffed - though there was an odd tension there. Anticipation.
The muscles in his arm straining, Michael grabbed the tree’s trunk and rose once more to his feet. “I made a promise,” he said. “Every time I took in a soul, every time someone died with my name on their lips, I accepted the person they saw in me. I told them they were right.”
The old man looked unimpressed, midnight eyes narrowing. “A hollow conviction. You don’t even believe it.”
“Not always. But that doesn’t matter. I was outvoted.” Michael stoked the light within him, letting it flare outward; it seeped between his ribs, burning through his veins. Gold dribbled out to infuse the world. “And maybe there’s no hope for change, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try.”
He lurched forward, his hand grabbing Jeorg’s face. The image of the old man shattered. Sand flowed between his fingers. There was only blackness in his grip, an eternal void.
Jeorg’s voice remained, though, coming clear and resonant to Michael’s ears. “You are the Ending,” he said. “Try as you might, that is your nature now. You couldn’t help but invoke it before.”
“It wasn’t quite right,” Michael agreed, tightening his grip. The light within him pulsed brighter, coursing through that arm to pool in his fingers, tainting the inky black with threads of gold. “I knew the words from looking at the paths ahead, and so I said them. But those paths led nowhere I wanted to walk.” He dug his fingers in, inexorable. “They went against what I began with.”
The darkness was utterly still, its voice calm. “And so what will you do, faced with this contradiction? What do you want, Michael Baumgart?”
Michael paused at the old question, delivered in such a familiar voice. “I want to keep the light within me from the abyss,” he said. “Nobody should be forced into oblivion.”
“Down that path is a dead world,” that voice noted, tinged with golden resonance. “You’ve seen it.”
“I was halfway there,” Michael grinned. “Stagnation isn’t the answer, nor is destruction, but that’s not the only option. There’s the artifex. The constant flow of both.”
An echoing laugh rang out past the net of gold now stretching across the void, the ineffable face vibrating with sudden glee under Michael’s hand. It was a different voice than Jeorg’s - vast, yet Michael had heard it once before.
“Then say your words.”
Michael lifted his chin, his sight fixed on the gold flooding into the abyss. He called upon Stanza, drawing his will into a scribing point - and then upon Spark, borrowing the will of the countless others surging through his veins.
There was a meeting, a melding; the pen and ink sat as one in his hand. Michael opened his mouth and spoke.
“Winding, wending, neverending,
To those words I keep, unbending.
Ever waiting, watching, minding,
Holding bonds but never binding.
The world shall ever rise, ascending.
Souls shall alter, changing, blending.
With this final act of mending -
Now I put an end to endings.”
Each word tore away parts of his soul, breaking what he had made when staring down at Luc’s hopeless face. Gold flowed in bright arterial splashes across the void, and Michael felt it rushing out of him, leaving him hollow, vast, empty-
And then there was nothing in his grip. Michael sank back against the tree, breathing hard, and with each breath he felt light rushing forth, not in wisps, but in great churning rivers springing forth from behind a broken dam.
That was not what his soul did. Not anymore. It was no stranger to him, not now that his hand had authored light over it. It didn’t even feel like a separate thing coiled deep within his chest. It was only Michael, slouched against the tree and bleeding out rivulets of humanity into the mud.
He laughed, weakly, and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. The light had almost faded away. Only the radiance of Michael’s greater souls still remained - heady, unbalanced without the great mass of humanity he had carried as a counterweight.
Michael took the smallest of the lights still within him and held it on his tongue, then breathed out slowly, letting the air grow thick with borrowed radiance. He felt it seeping into the soil, the water, the tree - and back into him, but that was fine.
He smiled, and kept his breathing steady. Before long, there was nothing left but a faint ember - and then nothing at all. Michael coaxed the next light forward. His sight bent in, watching the slow dwindling of gold into the air, feeling the drip of it back into the world.
It grew slower, as he continued. The air hung heavy with his exhalation, and he was forced to stop every so often when a different sort of light intruded on his efforts. Some of the brighter, human lights that he had parted with before, blowing back in on the wind.
Some were brighter than they had left him, or dimmer. Some had split and grown. Each sank back into him with hesitance, but Michael was well-practiced at the problem of stray souls by now.
He welcomed each back, and asked if they would like to shed their burdens and enter, or keep them and seek oblivion. The ones that chose to remain did not do so for long; they flowed back out on his breath, and the wind took them elsewhere.
And through it all, Michael let the stock of souls within him dwindle. In the end there were only eight left - brighter than the rest, stronger. They took much longer to wear down under the slow pressures of air and time, but with enough of both - they, too, departed.
Emptiness was a new feeling for Michael, but not an unwelcome one. He kept his breathing steady, focusing on it - the void held no more terrors for him, not after what he’d done to it. The slow trickle of light from outside continued apace, as well.
Michael had long since given up trying to place the souls that came back to him on the wind. They had changed, and split, and grown - and there were so many of them, more even than he remembered parting with. He had stopped trying to think too hard about it. It was more important that they came back, and stayed for a brief moment before venturing out once more.
But sometimes there was a lull. Spans of moments passed where nothing disturbed him, and those blended into long and empty moments where his mind wandered, thinking on the shape of void and light-
And it was in one of these moments that something rather odd happened.
A voice spoke, somewhere not too distant from him.
“I’m sure it’s just up here,” it said. It was a young woman’s voice, by the sound of it. Her speech was oddly-accented, her choice of words slightly off from what Michael expected, distracted and exasperated.
“That’s at least the third time you’ve said that,” another voice retorted, a young man. “Admit it; you’re lost. You’re hopeless with paper maps.”
“I know how to read a fucking map,” she shot back. “But it’s not like they’ve got each tree on them; we need to find the trail.”
The man gave an irritated grunt. “The park covers the whole peninsula, it could be anywhere. Look, there’s a clearing here-”
Michael opened his eyes as the two young people struggled out of the forest; they were not what drew his focus. The forest grabbed most of his attention, as he had not noticed it arrive. This was no amateur woodland, either, but an old and shade-dappled place that loomed high overhead.
“No luck,” the woman said, scanning the ground; her eyes traced right past Michael, then upward, her face lighting with wonder and happiness. “Oh, that’s pretty.”
The man’s eyes flicked upward; he nodded, then peered back at a map in his hand. “If we can find a higher spot, we might be able to get a signal-”
“I don’t think there are any hills near here,” Michael said.
The man and woman both froze, their eyes locking to where he sat against the tree. The man went pale, and the map slipped from his hand.
Slowly, Michael stood up. It was harder than he expected. He felt as though it had been a very long time since he tried, and there were vines twining their way over every part of him, binding him to the soil and the tree’s trunk.
He frowned and looked down at them, reaching for Stanza - but, no. Stanza had gone, and only an echoing space in its shape remained. Michael concentrated, though, and some of the light that currently idled within him fogged into that void. The vines writhed, parting, and he came away from the tree with a great mat of them clinging to his body like a robe.
It was probably for the best, upon reflection, as he wasn’t sure that his clothing had endured well. He sighed and looked back up at the two newcomers. “Then again, I haven’t checked recently.”
The young man turned and bolted into the forest, leaving the map and the woman behind. Her eyes went wide with alarm, and she half turned in his wake.
“Alex!” she called out, frightened; she took a half-step back from Michael, but stumbled on a root and fell. Her eyes snapped back to Michael, who held up his hands placatingly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“You - do you live here?” Her eyes narrowed. “Nobody lives here.”
Michael frowned. “No,” he said. “This is just - where I’ve been. For a while.” He took another opportunity to look around the clearing, drinking in the sight of the trees and greenery; it brought a smile to his lips. “Used to live somewhere similar, though.”
The woman gave him a strange look. “Who are you?”
“I’m Michael,” he replied. “And you?”
There was a pause; she blinked. “Shahin. What are you doing out here by yourself? Did you get lost? You can hike out with us if you want; we’ll have to find my useless boyfriend-” She turned to glare angrily at the treeline where he had vanished, then sighed and bent to retrieve the map. “Or we could skip that part. The rangers will find him eventually.”
Michael looked at her, bemused. Her appearance was strange - her clothes were in odd fabrics, and brightly colored. She looked Safid, to his eye, but didn’t act it.
“I think I might stay here,” Michael said. “At least for a little while longer. Take some time to appreciate the scenery.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “This is the middle of nowhere,” she said. “They wouldn’t even let people visit until last year. I know for a fact there’s no food or water - what have you been eating, those?”
Her eyes tracked up above his head, and Michael turned. His mouth felt suddenly very dry. Where he had been sitting, there was a tree - a giant of a tree, with old and whorled bark. It stretched up high beyond even the tallest of its neighbors, its branches spreading to shade the entire clearing-
And every one of those branches hung heavy with ripe, red apples, fairly glowing with a golden lustre.
Michael looked back at Shahin. The woman’s eyes had strayed to the trunk of the tree, where there was an indentation in the shape of a sitting man, one described in layers of aged vines and mosses. She swallowed dryly, and her skin grew a shade paler.
“You’re frightened of me,” he observed.
Shahin looked back at him, then nodded once, hesitantly. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I did say I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Michael held up his hands and took a step back.
She did not run, but her lip trembled as she spoke. “But you’re not quite human, are you?”
Michael paused. After a moment, he smiled. “I suppose it’s not too reassuring that I have to think about it,” he said sheepishly. “I’m friendly?”
Shahin laughed nervously, tucking some stray hair behind one ear. “That’s a start. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just - this is like a campfire story or something. The little girl wanders into the woods to see souls and monsters.”
Michael looked at her for a long moment; she shivered. He put a smile on his lips and sat down on a nearby log. “You don’t have to go to the woods to find either,” he said.
“Maybe not,” she sighed. A small struggle played out on her face before she walked over to sit beside him, tentatively lowering herself to the mossy wood. “But the woods are still more dangerous. You find things there that aren’t - sanitized. Old things, that still have their sharp corners, that haven’t been polished and made easy. Deeper shadows. Real monsters, and real souls. Not the stuff from history and cinema.”
Something in Michael’s head was screaming, latching on to the meanings behind her words. It had been a long, long time since he had seen the branching paths of the world unfold before him, but in the cavernous void where Sibyl once sat they began to spread and multiply. The world teetered on the brink of momentum, of potential.
He met Shahin’s eyes. “Would you like a soul?” he asked.
She froze, her eyes widening. “There are no more souls,” she whispered. “They’re - history. Relics of a different time. That world died a long time ago.”
“Maybe,” Michael said. “But it didn’t end. It only paused to rest, so it could - shed weight, and try something new.” He softened his words with a smile, a real one this time. “What would you do if you had a soul?”
Shahin laughed, her hand trembling as she brushed her hair back once more. “The same as every kid,” she said. “Bend steel, jump over buildings, throw fire and lightning around-” She broke off, looking away. “I don’t know. We’ve found our way to those things by other paths anyway. I suppose it would just be nice to - give people some wonder back. To show them that there’s more to the world than they thought.”
“Like strange men living where you’d least expect them,” Michael said, laughing. He closed his eyes, tasting the image she had made in her mind. It was pleasant, full of kindness and yearning, of frustrated aspirations prodding against barriers they couldn’t quite surmount.
The air twisted slightly, and Michael held out his hand. In it was an apple, its skin bearing a faint golden glow. Not the smallest, nor the largest apple on the tree - but still remarkable, as they all were. Shahin’s eyes went wide; she brought her hand reflexively to her lips, then her forehead, giving them both gentle, disbelieving touches. Michael held the apple out to her.
She looked at it as if it might explode in her face. “Zer arraio. Is that - is it all right for me to take that?” she asked.
Michael laughed. “It’s for you,” he said, placing it into her hand and folding her fingers around it.
She held it up, looking even paler than before. “I’m not sure if I should,” she said. Her voice was very quiet now. “If it is - what you say it is, then it should go to someone with-” She broke off, flushing, another nervous laugh escaped her. “With better impulse control. Someone who would do good with it.”
“I had a similar concern, once,” Michael said, amused. “A friend of mine told me that it is no harder to be good with a soul than without.” He paused, recalling words spoken in a different garden, on a far-distant day.
“The soul reveals,” he said. “It amplifies. But only you know good and evil. You are the glass through which this mote of the universe sees itself and all the rest of creation. Wherever you lead it, it will follow. If you use your soul to bring joy or despair, look to yourself and think - I did this. My actions, my consequences. If you don’t like your path, you can’t blame your feet.”
Shahin looked vaguely ill. “Now I’m certain I shouldn’t have it,” she said. “I’ll just do something that I’ll regret.”
Michael paused. “It’s a risk,” he admitted. “But I thought you came out here to get away from an overabundance of safety?”
She laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her eyes stayed fixed on the apple. Michael leaned back on the log.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he ventured. “There’s nothing to lose by trying. Nothing is ever lost, not anymore. It just comes back to say hello. Nice to see you.” His eyes closed; somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing. “I love you. Again and again.”
Shahin didn’t reply. Her lips parted, gently, and the apple came up to them. She took a tentative bite. Michael felt the sweet juice spread on her tongue. Paths branched out, and out, exploding with fresh life as the sky opened up above them, tracking up until they were lost in the haze of possibility.
And somewhere in that distant mist there was an end, but not an ending. Ways splayed out beyond his view, into far-off worlds extending futures ruined and renewed beyond the point of comprehending-
But always finding their way through.
Winding, wending, neverending.
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