Realm-Lords, page 37
And he… he was smoke. He was black fire burning in a locked chamber. He was nothing and everything, pure spirit, pure will.
And Kaethraxis… Kaethraxis had a form. In this realm, upon this plane, the beast was not just some looming, whirling cyclone at all, but a being. The storm still surged and roiled around it, but at the heart of that maelstrom, feet firmly planted on the ground, it had a body much like Ferendir’s own, a form, a sense of self.
Wrong. It did not have one body – it had two. One body was just a child – small, helpless, weak, full of raging emotions and inarticulate desires. The other was tall, mature – aelven, in fact, like one of Ferendir’s own comrades or masters – and yet wholly broken. The child was all need. The adult was all trauma and scars. The child only knew impulses, emotions, hungers. The adult… it was scarred, fissured, broken. Grief, self-loathing, anger, mortal terror – they all coloured and beset the being. And as Ferendir knelt there before it, watching, the two spirits seemed to blink in and out of existence, each occupying the same space, each equally desperate to enslave and control the other.
Ferendir recalled Serath’s story of the creature’s genesis.
Lariel took Kaethraxis into himself, tried to contain it, to control it. It overwhelmed all the natural and magical defences arrayed against it.
Lariel was seized by grief… consumed by aelemental urges… unable to reconcile his rationality with the entity’s destructive passions…
Lariel was subsumed by Kaethraxis…
Impetuous outpourings of destructive force driven by a shattered psyche…
These were the two spirits that inhabited the same entity. Kaethraxis – the embodied purge, the creative–destructive impulse of nature incarnate – was the child. All it knew was fear and want, suspicion and anger. Lariel was the adult, wholly aware of what destruction he had wrought – and it had scarred and twisted him, driven him mad.
Who? the thing demanded. It did not come to Ferendir as a word, more as a deep desire – a need to know who, or what, this small, bold creature before it might be.
Ferendir found the warmth within himself – the ghost of Desriel. He imagined his master’s kind eyes, the warmth of his playful half-smile, the way his hands could enclose a wound and heal it. Ferendir conjured those memories, those images, those aching losses, and he presented them, whole and unadulterated, to Kaethraxis.
Let me help you. Let me heal you. I feel your pain, your need–
The storm intensified. Even here, on an aethereal plane, the forces churning and shifting around Ferendir were powerful, monstrous. For an instant – only an instant – that tempest threatened to literally erase him, to simply blow away his consciousness into nothing and bar its reconstitution. But Ferendir held on. He kept himself anchored, concentrated, adamant.
His masters were his anchors.
Monster! a voice called in the darkness. Destroyer! Abomination! It is mine! I unleashed it!
Lariel, still traumatised by his failures, his losses, his mistakes. A master – a parent – driven mad by his own self-hatred and inability to forgive his weakness.
Ferendir imagined Serath – strong, proud, stone-faced, always seeming so distant, so disapproving… all the while haunted by his own failure, his own mistakes – or rather, his own perceptions of failure, the mistakes of others that he claimed as his own. Unable to believe. Unable to forgive.
He offered those memories to Lariel. Strong Serath. Proud Serath. Scarred Serath. Grief-haunted Serath.
Something was wrong. The two beings in one were at war again, battling, fighting for supremacy. Once more a gust of willpower and wind threatened to tear Ferendir’s spirit to pieces, to scatter him into the aether and total oblivion. Before him, at the heart of the maelstrom, he saw the two spirits locked in a deadly embrace, one moment like two pugilists, grappling and rolling, the next like dancers, whirling and whirling to unheard music, the next like serpents wrapped round one another, snapping, striking, venom and hatred dripping from their bared fangs.
Ferendir anchored himself again – no small feat, their combined force was so powerful, so overwhelming.
Once more the two beings were at war with one another – two psyches vying savagely for supremacy, seemingly moved to combat by Ferendir’s offerings.
I gave the frightened child Desriel’s kindness and faith.
I gave the guilt-ridden adult Serath’s strength and determination.
Suddenly, Ferendir felt a pang of terror.
Tyrion and Teclis, forgive me! I was a fool! A fool!
He remembered the worm in the woods.
Bridge the gap. Be the lens that focuses two separate spectrums of light.
But they are not here! he cried inwardly. Desriel lies dead! Serath is ash and memory! How can I focus two separate spectrums of light that no longer shine?
Kaethraxis was growing fierce now, its cyclonic form whirling with greater and greater speed, lightning and raw power bleeding outwards into the world like sloppily fired arrows – haphazard, random, indifferent to what destruction might be wrought.
Ferendir could feel panic rising in him, doubt, fear. He knew – knew – that if he failed to fight down those impulses, his end would come in the next instant. One of those stray bolts of lightning would disintegrate him. A pillar of fire would cook him. Great, looming Kaethraxis would consume him, draw him into its tempest and tear him to pieces.
Stop, he commanded himself. Breathe.
Breathe.
Seek the mountain. She has not left you. This valley is still part of a range. Within that range is a chain. And within that chain is your mountain, your mother, your home…
Death may come in the next instant… but in the present I will not fear. I will not fail because of my doubt, my panic. I will delve and seek and work this to my very last moment, as Serath did, as Desriel would have…
He went deeper. He called out along the subterranean rivers and unseen ley lines of power that connected each mountain to every other through the bowels of the realm beneath and around him. Before him, the warring souls vying for supremacy in the being known as Kaethraxis were separated, recoloured, drawn into sharper relief against one another, even as they grappled and struggled. They were not evil, not malign, nor mad – they were simply scarred, broken, deeply in need of healing and reconciliation.
Mother? Ferendir called into the dark, addressing the mountain, seeking her power and support. Tell me, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of my masters’ sacrifice – where do I find them? How do I channel their spirits, their very essences, now?
The answer came in silence. Ferendir might have missed it for the deep, insistent prayers and petitions now echoing in the chambers of his own psyche.
They never left you, the mountain said. They remain within you.
He very nearly snapped out of his trance, so shocking was her answer in its simplicity.
All that they were – the parts that could be passed on – live in you now. You need not look far to find them.
He delved deeper. When the floor of his consciousness threatened to halt his dive, he shattered it, punched right through it, down into the substrata that was he, himself, the purest and most symbolic parts of him. And as though he’d uncovered a long-buried spring, Ferendir suddenly felt the separate fonts of energy that were his masters’ combined legacies – Desriel’s compassion, Serath’s crystalline, adamant surety – exploding in raw aelemental waves from within him. With the worm in the woods, their energies had felt like a pair of streams winding down a mountainside, spilling over a single shelf of stone into the same roiling bowl. Now, there was no winding, no soft spillage. He had uncovered geysers, and he stood at the base of the massive waterfall and watched the two streams crash together, combining and churning into a roiling, powerful mélange that only he possessed the power to refine and channel.
They fall. They crash. They commingle. Two become one. I am that one. I am the bowl that receives them. I am the shelf those newly combined waters spill over. I am the river that receives them. I am the scarred landscape that channels the river.
Those two opposing forces – the spirits and legacies of his masters – crashed together at the centre of him, and he sent them hurling outwards, clear and sharp and bright.
I see your fear, the absence of mastery, your untamed impulses – I will tame them.
I see your grief, your guilt, your unresolved self-hatred and ongoing suffering. I will forgive you. I will help you heal.
The answer came as a mighty, realm-shaking roar, both within him and outside him.
No.
Lightning scarred the ground before and beside him. Molten rock glowed an angry red, growing viscous in seconds.
Ferendir was not afraid.
I will not be frightened away, he thought. Kill me. Destroy me. I forgive you.
No.
Pillars of fire spat from the great corporeal storm. Burning embers and whirling smoke rained down around him. But it did not touch him. It did not damage him. Still he lived.
I am here, with you, Ferendir said. I will stay with you. So long as you need me, I will not abandon you.
No.
I am your student–
No.
I am your teacher–
No.
I am your master.
Kaethraxis raged. The great cyclonic column stretched into the sky, tearing at the cloud, and dug deep into the scree-strewn earth beneath it, tearing up regolith and long-buried boulders. The winds around Ferendir’s physical body whipped and lashed at him, lightning seared the air and bursts of angry flame filled his nostrils with the scent of sulphur and char. The whole world trembled beneath and around him. Rockslides scoured the slopes on either side, falling mercilessly towards the valley floor. His body was so shaken, so tossed about where he knelt, that he felt as if his trance might break.
But he could not let it. He had to endure. He had to remain. Kaethraxis had to know that he was true to his word.
I will be your student, your teacher, your master… and you will be mine.
You will not be alone. Not so long as I live.
And then, like a miracle, like waking from a dream, everything ceased. The buckling earth, the roaring, shaking mountains, the tempest-tossed air, the lightning, the fire, the chaos. The effect was so sudden, so unexpected, that Ferendir almost thought for a moment that his death had finally arrived. That the stillness and sense of peace he now felt were simply proof of his transition to another realm.
He opened his inward eye, seeking Kaethraxis.
The cyclone still rose and spun before him, but slowly, pensively. Seeing through his inward eye – the eye that saw all the planes at once – he could clearly discern the two warring souls that only moments before had been threatening him and vying with one another for control.
Except there were no longer two. Only one.
Reconciled. Whole. Not healed, but capable of healing.
Ferendir ended his trance. He drew himself up and out of his multi-planar state and opened his eyes onto the physical, present scene in the hidden valley where the tomb of Kaethraxis lay. The great column of incorporeal force and power stood before him, scintillating, bleeding an internal luminescence in a slow, easy cascade of competing colours. There was no more lightning. No more fire. No more thunder and rage.
‘Show me the place where you dwell,’ Ferendir said. ‘The place where I shall now dwell with you.’
EPILOGUE
Ferendir felt them long before he saw them – two souls shining in the aether, venturing slowly but surely over the treacherous mountain passes that led into the valley. His awareness – strengthened and widened significantly by his daily and nightly meditations in the years since he had settled here – was now powerful enough to move into the aether above him as well as along the deep tectonic currents that flowed through and beneath the mountains. So it was that on that particular morning, deep in trance as he always was at that hour of the day, he saw those two familiar living beings hiking steadily through the pass to the west. If his calculations were correct, they would be visible on the slopes, picking their way down towards him, by mid-morning.
It had been many months since any company had joined him in his new remote home. A little conversation, some news of the world outside – both would please him immensely. He decided he would welcome them.
His calculations were correct. Phalcea and Metorrah appeared on the high ridge exactly at mid-morning and began a slow, steady descent towards the valley and the tomb. Ferendir waited patiently for them, perching himself on a large, flat boulder that had been left near the ruined entryway. He crossed his legs beneath him as Desriel often had, then straightened his back and placed his hands sturdily on his knees as Serath might have. So arrayed, he waited patiently, meditating or simply enjoying the view of his sparse, oddly beautiful little valley.
Metorrah and Phalcea did not reach the valley floor until well after midday. When they came marching down the length of the scree-strewn canyon towards the cliff and the ruined tomb, they each raised their hands in greeting. Ferendir raised his own. Though he would not embarrass them by showing excess emotion outwardly, in truth he was very happy to see them. Sitting there, waiting so patiently without going to meet them, had taken a great deal of willpower on his part, for inside he felt a vague giddiness and anticipation – a feeling wholly alien to him since his long-lost childhood.
‘I told you he’d know we were coming,’ Phalcea said as they approached, loudly enough that Ferendir could hear her.
‘Should we be so shocked?’ Metorrah answered drolly. ‘A powerful and renowned Stoneguard like this one?’
‘Teasing instead of a greeting,’ Ferendir said. ‘I missed you as well, Metorrah.’
He rose, trotted down the steps of the half-crushed, half-buried portico and marched out to meet the sisters. They gave calm, respectful salutes as greetings. Even after all they had been through together, no self-indulgent sentiment could be allowed.
‘I have food,’ Ferendir said, ‘and I insist you partake.’
‘Well, you are in luck,’ Phalcea said. ‘Because we assumed you would have only survival rations up here in this horrible place, and we brought fresh supplies, which we insist you partake of.’
Ferendir gave a slight smile. He felt the ghost of Desriel in it.
‘I would like nothing better.’
‘Three years,’ Phalcea said, munching crispy twice-baked bread, ‘and this place still looks like it was shattered yesterday.’
Ferendir shrugged. ‘I am alone. There is only so much cleaning and reconstruction I can do as an individual.’
‘Have you no visitors?’ Metorrah asked, then sipped her steaming tree-bark tea.
‘I do,’ Ferendir assured her. ‘Intermittently. Every few months, usually. Word has travelled now about what happened here, what a catastrophe we narrowly averted–’
‘You averted,’ Phalcea corrected. ‘We fled, remember?’
‘You fell back, on my order, so that if I failed, you could bring help. Perhaps it was only good fortune that I succeeded at all…’
‘I won’t hear you talking that way,’ Metorrah said rather severely. ‘Your masters saw power in you – purpose, strength. We all helped one another reach this place, but our efforts, in the end, were to assure your success. This was your destiny, Ferendir. It had been, all along.’
Ferendir nodded and thought of his masters. Not a day went by when he did not reconjure them in his imagination, to remember what they had taught him, to recall what good and singular souls they were or to simply mourn them and miss them. They haunted his dreams as well, frequently offering him insights into his nature, or the nature of Kaethraxis, that he felt he would not have stumbled upon otherwise. He often wondered whether those ghosts in his mind were them, in fact, or simply aspects of himself wearing their masks. Reason told him it was probably the latter, but he made the conscious choice to believe it was the former.
‘I only wish your destiny was not such a lonely one,’ Phalcea said. Ferendir heard the concern in her voice, the vague tinge of sadness.
‘I am not lonely,’ Ferendir said. ‘Desriel and Serath are still with me. And Kaethraxis–’
‘Hush,’ Metorrah spat. ‘Do not say its name.’
Ferendir shook his head. ‘There is nothing to fear. It sleeps. Sometimes we commune in dreams. I will not say it is reformed, but it has changed, however slightly.’
While he told them no lies, he had not told them the whole, unadulterated truth either. But then again, what would be the point of sharing the whole truth? In the end, this place was his burden to bear, not theirs.
‘Can it ever be controlled?’ Metorrah asked.
‘Or destroyed?’ Phalcea added, almost in a whisper.
Ferendir thought about how to answer those questions. After a moment’s consideration, he realised he had no answers. He shook his head.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Someday. For now… I shall remain.’
‘What of relief?’ Phalcea asked. ‘Another Stoneguard?’
Again, Ferendir had no answer. He could only repeat what he had already said.
‘Perhaps… someday.’
They were silent for a long time then.
‘The wars have not abated,’ Phalcea finally said. ‘It seems no matter how many minions of Chaos we slaughter and beat back, more are always waiting. The Slaaneshi Hedonites, Disciples of Tzeentch, Blades of Khorne, the Daemons of Nurgle – they are everywhere, swarming in from the darker corners of the realm, always gnawing away at its essence, its very soul.’
‘That’s what brought us, in fact,’ Metorrah added. ‘We received word from Iliatha that a new Slaaneshi warhost is tearing hither and yon across the land, reaving and plundering and murdering as they go. Given that it’s home, we asked the Windstrider for leave to withdraw from her warhost and go fight with our people.’
