Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars III: Descensum
(t)
Saturday, May 12, 708 CR
Charles looked around in confusion; the realm of
dreams was far from what he had expected. It was
neither nightmarish, though most certainly gothic
enough, nor a bright and cheery place. It was,
above all else, a rather bland admixture of gray
and black, like a forest after a fire. On all
sides, stunted, twisted trees blocked his sight
beyond a dozen feet. Naked branches clutched at
the cloud-streaked, moonlit sky overhead and
clacked like desiccated bones against an unfelt
gale. A single path of crushed stone, only
slightly less ashed gray than the surrounding
forest, meandered through the twisted brush.
Where was the tree, Charles thought. He needed to
find the tree, because that was where he would find Ladero!
And where in the hells was Malger?
Not yet. You must go to her, and ask, first. You
must draw her focus upon you. Distracted, the
path can be sought without her wiles hiding it away.
With a moue of frustration Charles turned and
began striding along the path, clutching his
black traveling cloak about his shoulders. He did
not know how long he walked; it seemed like days,
or hours, the passage of time defied his senses
while his thoughts tumbled and jumbled about,
focusing more on his goal than his guide.
Pleasant dream, Malger opined at some point
during his long hike, wandering at his side as if
the marten had always been there. The flute that
dangled at his hip glistened in the gray pall of
the dream realm so starkly it seemed a lighthouse beacon on a clear night.
What is this place, minstrel? Charles groused.
If this was the vaunted Dream Malger spoke so
highly of and sought each night the fop could well enough keep it.
The Dream. Malger's tone was insufferably
affable, as if the gloom and skeletal knackering
of the branches was as common to him as the burbling of a brook.
Bright damn place. Charles gave him a sour
sidelong look. He figured he would've been taken
to some mighty, heavenly temple or facsimile of a
king's audience; not trudging a dusty path in an ashen forest.
Well, perhaps I should have coached you to
embrace a more pleasant view in your dream?
Malger offered with a lift of his furry brows. A
vision, perhaps, somewhat less dramatic? They
stepped out onto the top of a towering spire of
stone up which the path through the bracken lead.
In all directions the world fell away into vague
forms of mountain and valley but all were below
and above were only clouds and the ever-present
moon. Atop the tor was a circle of mighty stones,
rough-hewn and primitive, in the center of which lay a flat stone slab.
It was a sacrificial altar from ancient times
before Eli's son tamed the barbaric ways of men.
Charles felt his upper lip curl at the pagan
sight but he could not stop his feet their
forward progress. Malger seemed not concerned in
the slightest about the portent of the place they
approached. Within the standing stones hearts
were stilled and blood flowed in the name of ancient, heathen gods.
This is not my dream, Charles hissed.
His ears were backed when a voice croaked, like
boulders grinding together in the depths of a
mountain, The petitioner defines not the venue.
A shadow, formless as mist, flowed around and
through the standing stones opposite them. It
spilled up to the heathen altar even as Charles
and his guide came to stand opposite. Crashing
against the stone the darkness roiled upward,
like smoke suddenly stalled by a column of cold
air, and quite suddenly took on a beastly, dark form.
The Star-Eyed Crone, queen of Ravens, totem of
the lost Methratii of ancient Sondeshara. In the
aeons when the Sondeckis were young, when Pharos
ruled from their bejeweled empires of the desert
sands, the dark cabal of the Methratii spread
darkness across the sands. Their queen was the
Raven, thief of souls, in whose eyes the stars of
the Cosmos were born. Charles felt a shiver of
terror race up his spine, lifting the sparse
coarse hair of his tail and bush up his hackles.
The Sondeckis had vanquished the Methratii,
ending the rites of blood and stone!
This is the guise the pagan witch chooses! The
Crone is no more. Her faithful no more! Quell
your fear, for the sake of your son!
Gritting his teeth Charles fought back the heart-crushing fear.
You have come? Nocturna croaked in the raven's terrifying voice.
Taking a breath Charles raised his gaze to look
up at her, for she stood easily twice Malger's
height, who was a head taller than Charles.
Charles fell back a pace, tail dropping and eyes
wide, as he gazed upon the full majesty of an
entity he had forsaken all belief, and trust, in
long ago. There was simply not enough room in
creation for one of Her, much less an entire Pantheon of them.
And, yet, before him she towered, black as night.
Grinding his teeth Charles steeled himself and
strode forward, stopping before the slab that
stood between them, his shadow brushing against
with the moon at his back. I have! He forced
out, his lungs shriveled in his breast as if his
chest was caught in the tight fist of a titan,
slowly squeezing the life from his frail mortal
coil. I seek one who has passed beyond!
The crone towered above him, her visage cold and
crushing. No stars glimmered in the sky tenanted
only by the gibbous moon, but within those
depthless black eyes stars glinted like diamonds
in pitch. One who has passed beyond the veil of
Night, beyond dreams. Her hand reached, thin and
raptoral, black talons glistening as they clawed
at the air as if to grasp the unseen with a bony hiss. Beyond my grasp.
Though his heart strove to pound itself free of
his breast Charles strove on, unable to run even
had he the thought to do so. But you know where
he may be found! He had to learn forward against
the mere weight of her presence as if it may bowl
him flat where he stood. He clutched the heavy
black of his traveling cloak tight about his shoulders.
I do. The crone bobbed her black feathered head
slowly, favoring a groveling subject with her
regard. You come before me, to seek, to ask of
me a bequest? She leaned forward with each word,
beak clicking and croaking voice rolling across
Charles like an icy wind, until he found himself
staring up the length of that dark beak like a
sword hovering an inch from his nose poised to
thrust. You ask that I seek to find him?
Charles' throat went desert dry as he felt
himself drawn toward the unending cosmic depths
within the frightening apparition's star-strewn
eyes. He had to swallow, violently, twice before
he could find his voice again. To bring him
back, mistress! He rasped, clutching at his
shirt. I beg, please! Bring him back to me, that
I may know him one last time! Clutching his arms
around himself for fear that the crone's regard
might blast his dream-self to tatters he forced
himself to hold her unwavering gaze. To say
farewell, to know a father's love one last moment!
The foundations of the bridge are laid. Where she
cannot reach other paths can lead. Keep her focus
upon what she desires until the path is opened and she cannot stop you.
Abruptly the crone stood, towering above him once
more, her wings sweeping outward and casting the
far side of the henge into darkness only vaguely
defined by huge feathers. Charles felt his body
sag forward and found himself resting a hand
wearily against the stone. It was cold; glacially
cold. He quickly snatched his hand away. To
bring him back from the Beyond place, from His
grasp unto yours, she intoned; not
admonishingly, but to clarify his bequest. A
task of greatness you ask of me. The price of a soul is steep.
A soul lost can be found, mistress! Charles
cried out hastily, lest her regard turn from him
to other things worthy of a god's attention. I
seek it, I understand the cost!
Do you? Charles was sent reeling by the sudden
explosion of sound. Even Malger, standing
silently a short distance away, flinched and
quailed at the outburst. The bracken ringing the
tor cracked and rattled and the clouds vanished
from the sky overhead. He does not relinquish
His claim lightly, seeker, even to one such as I.
Steeling himself, Charles pushed his bowed back
straight once more. Ask what you will!
Snapping her mantled wings down with a thump of
heat she leaned forward so swiftly Charles braced
himself for some dramatic end to his quest. Only,
he felt a mere touch, deadly sharp but
deceptively light, in the hollow of his chin. Kneel.
Charles lifted his chin a little but the prick of
one talon, easily as long as his hand from wrist
to fingertip, pressed upward more solidly. Mistress?
Kneel, but know that she is false. She cannot
reach your lost one. Only... patience, her
attention is still upon her goal and not yours.
Charles' heart skipped and, momentarily, stilled
and his knee began to bend but something within
him, deeper than his overwhelming need, deeper
than his love for his lost son, hardened him
against the baleful, star-filled gaze and the
deadly threat of that talon at his throat. He
straightened his knee and from that deep place uttered a single word. No!
She knows not what she asks. She can never truly
embrace your soul, kneel or not.
NO! My soul is given to Him, and only He can claim it!
Rather than slice him gullet ear to ear the talon
simply trailed upward, and then drew away like
the teasing blade of an assassin toying with
their prey. The price of a soul is a soul in
return, seeker. With a snicker of hard edged
bone she laced her fingers together over her
stomach and stared coldly down upon him. Have
you one to offer, to ask such a boon, and yet be
so unwilling to lay forth your own?
You do. Look, you have with you that which can be offered in exchange.
Charles looked down at a weight in one arm and
found, safely tucked into the fatherly cradle of
his arm, a sleeping child; a rat child. His
child. He blinked in surprise, for a moment his
thoughts completely scattered. With his empty
hand he reached up to brush his eldest son's
brow. Could he trade one son for another? One
bereft of the Sondecki gift for the one stolen from him with that inheritance?
There is no trade, for this only opens the door.
The pathway is very nearly before you! Do not
question what she desires, lest her attention waver.
I cannot! Even in deceit! Charles fought against
himself, but his body moved of its own accord,
his voice issuing forth from a throat he gave no
breath to. I do, he intoned, shifting the
slumbering burden into his arms and stepping
toward the stone. Kneeling before the stone, he gently laid his burden upon it.
The crone is blind!
Charles felt his heart throb and wilt within his
breast, growing brittle even as he watched
himself, unable to stay his reaching arms as they
bore his eldest son away. The world grayed at the
edges of his vision as he laid little Charles,
his namesake, upon the cold stone of the blood
altar, its etched grooves eager to drink life
afresh from the rat's willing sacrifice. He
sensed the crone, the Raven Queen, dark goddess
of the Methratii; Nocturna torturing him with a
story torn from the legends of his own
birthright, leaning close over him. A shadow
greater than her presence loomed about him,
narrowing his gaze until he could only see the
slumbering visage of his son. And then, that too,
disappeared in darkness with a sharp pain lancing through his ear.
----------
Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR Twilight
Charlie glared across the short space separating
him from his sire, a cauldron simmering in his
gaze. Charles looked back upon it calmly, with
resignation. Slowly he raised a hand, somewhat
surprised to see his fingers shaking. It had been
nearly fifteen long, torturous years since he had
looked back upon that moment, which was still as
crystal clear as an event only moments past.
Aye, my son, in my blindness, I saw nothing but
the goal I sought. But, you will see, you should
already know, She sought you for you, not a bargaining chip or prize.
More like a fish, Charlie spat, his body fairly
vibrating with renewed fury. Thus far he had
seen, and had borne witness to, the exact vision
four times, each time suffering only minor
variation. Like an omen, knelled four times,
before the fall of the headsman's axe. A prize
tossed about for the whims of everyone but me!
Charlie, Charlie, hear me out, please? When the
youth rose he was somewhat shocked to find that
his sire had risen first, and far more swiftly.
I can bar the door, son, and speak my peace.
The elder rat muttered flatly, but with
contrition in his voice. I wish... honestly and
in truth? I wish I had spoke to you of this when
you were five, or ten, not on the cusp of manhood
and filled with half dreams and broken memories.
Charles relaxed his posture slightly when Charlie
also relaxed, realizing that he could run, again.
But to where?
Now is what you have, Charles. Make good of it.
Crossing his arms Charlie angrily sank back down upon the bench.
----------
And this brings Pars III to an end! I hope to share Pars IV ere long.
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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