King of Anjei

Prologue

Darkness surrounded him. He was simply an observer: no thoughts, opinions or sense of self possessed his being. Where was he? It mattered not, and the question was forgotten. How long had he been here? Irrelevant: this too was swiftly erased from his mind. Could his state of being even be considered an existence? Even as he formed the thought, he could feel it slipping from his conscious grasp; it was as if the very fabric of each newly spun tapestry of thought was being forcibly dragged and torn from its hangings by invisible, talon-like claws before it had even had the chance to properly affix its self to the wall.

Murmurings; He could hear murmurings. And he could remember having heard the murmurings. And he could hear them still. He concentrated on the faint, indistinct utterances, trying to discern anything recognisable – and yet failing. The whispers were indistinguishable from each other. The reverberations grew louder, ebbing and flowing like a tide of sound; gaining in intensity each time they broke and crashed gently upon his senses. He no longer had to strain his hearing to pick out fragments the noises. He could now make out individual voices, foreign to his ears; yet within their disjointed and almost mechanical quality, he thought he detected - was it eagerness? - An anticipation for some unknown yet obviously expected climax. The excited chattering grew louder still, growing to a painful clamour that rang between his ears. His mind reeled. He felt as if he were being jostled and pushed forwards by some invisible crowd. His eyes rolled back in his head and he felt stars stab at his eye sockets in the blackness; he had reached his limit and his head would explode from noise and he could take no more, would take no more –

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please.”

A hushed silence quickly descended upon the raucous atmosphere of the audience (he reflected upon his choice of term for describing the void he occupied, alarmed at how easily he had assumed his locale). He felt all eyes (once again, an assumption) turn towards the source of the voice, and he too found himself straining his sight in vain in the same direction.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I direct your attention to the front stage” the voice sounded again, much closer to him this time, he mused. It was neither definitively masculine nor feminine, paused at decisively odd intervals (for a dramatic effect, he presumed), and seemed to dip and swoop through a large range of pitches with each syllable.

“Welcome to our production; our cabaret, if you will.”

It seemed to speak in unsettlingly lilting tones, underscored with a subtle acerbic, dare he suggest caustic, edge. It would lull him into a state of sedation and security, each phrase somehow soothing and melodic; yet at seemingly random it would twist its self viciously between his ears, hissing like some fanged demon at his neck, and send a sheer flash of terror unparalleled by any life experience through his system.

“Tonight”, it continued, “we bring to you a floor show of unsurpassed and unprecedented magnificence… we trifle with taboo. We flit with forbidden. We sail with sordid and explore the exonerated. What I speak of,” it paused dramatically, “is a tale, a history if you will, that has not yet come to pass… and yet has passed and shall pass again.”

His mind was fuzzy and clouded, and he found himself apparently able to understand without logically being able to comprehend what was being said. A drum roll crescendoed in the silence as the voice spoke once more, this time with certain fervour that had not been present before.

“Without further hesitation or trepidation, I give to you the highest of the high and our puppet conductor this evening: the string-master himself”

A loud cymbal crashed as a bright spotlight suddenly illuminated a figure on the stage. He stood, thin and lanky, in an awkward position, his weight entirely balanced on the front of his left foot. He wore jet black trousers which slumped in wrinkled bunches at his knees and ankles, partially covering a pair of well-burnished black boots. One of his feet pointed outwards, twisting in what looked to be a painful position from his ankle. His shoulders sagged unevenly under his thick, red velveteen jacket. White-gloved hands barely peeped from underneath the rim of the large sleeves. He stood as he was, immobilised, a sickly smile all that was visible from underneath the black tall-hat he wore. His lips began to move, the actions barely observable.

“I give you…” he spoke, almost an inaudible whisper in baritone “illumination!”

Without warning, flames rushed up from the edges of the stage, which had now become a platform and begun to rotate clockwise at an alarming speed. He realised that the audience too was spinning around the platform. A gentle, upbeat string waltz began to play as the man raised his hands to the sky and leant backwards, so far so that had it not been for his other leg projecting madly in front of him, he would have surely toppled over. He continued to coil and flex to his bizarre mantra of unintelligible moaning, his fingers intertwining and cracking at odd angles as he began to rise from the stage into the shaft of light. He let out a grating screech as his head flung back, his tongue and eyes lolling wildly in his skull. One arm suddenly shot forth to rip off his hat and he turned to look at the crowd, suspended by some force a few metres off the platform. He began to speak; and although the man was a fair distance away from him, he could nevertheless swear he could feel the razor-sharp rancour of his hot breath at his ear; the piercing white, pupil-less eyes boring into his skull…

Through his hazy thoughts, he half-noticed the man’s fingers had begun to lengthen. Like melting rubber, they slowly formed into long, wraith-like whips, splitting and curling loosely like some poisonous white vine. The tendrils hung from his sides, almost touching the floor. It was as if white glove and ghostly tissue had seared together in some blistering flame and now were one, decaying and dripping in a twisted mix of flesh and fabric.

“Players: to the stage!” he declared abruptly, standing upright with his arms and legs spread-out as if to illustrate the divine proportions of the great master Da Vinci. His hands shot outwards, the tendrils leaping to life like segmented, bleached cords. A tortured shriek ripped through his skull as a barbed end of one of the rope-like fingers thrust its self completely through the chest of a man, blood spattering his bare torso. As the digit contracted, it dragged the limp, lifeless body of the being to the stage. The man, surely by some miracle, was still quite alive, although his deportment suggested a drugged haze clouded his mind. He flailed his limbs in clumsy, jerking movements, like a dying fish left to perish just beyond the water’s edge. The barbed tip of the rope which protruded from his back began to coil around him, burrowing its self once within his chest.

Entwine and pop, combine and merge, see soul and flesh and horrors surge,

Like a monstrous serpent, it tunnelled and snaked its way through the man’s body. His initial screams of agony had died; replacing them, mere whimpers which grew ever fainter with each passing instance.

Tonight we feast, tomorr’ we bite, cast down the blinding Virgil’s light,

The man, now entirely enveloped in a seething mass of winding white tendrils, began to convulse and twitch slowly. He suddenly burst into white flames as he began to transform. His face melted and was swallowed up by the white glazing which seemed to be appearing all over his body, becoming an indistinct, featureless smoothness. He watched, with morbid fascination, as the flames licked and flickered their ways across his skin; not burning, but sculpting and transforming the being as if he were made of wet, white, pliable clay. Membranes began to form at his flanks, stretching from his now long, bony forearms to his powerful, muscular legs.

To house a sovereign, you I’ll purge, eclectic mix of dint and dirge.

He stood - a glistening white collection of steaming sinew, held standing by invisible threads, as if he were nought but a marionette. He flapped his wings merrily as he shook the water from his person. As the many droplets disappeared from his dampened furry form, the other digits of the String Master turned towards the crowd, lengthening to snare more performers for the tale. The stage was now a veritable conflagration of flaring, white flames. The blazing light seemed to blind him, push him from the plane of existence he now occupied. He could feel himself waking up, his mind blurring as he returned to the daylight.

He let out a long, grating groan into the soft fabric folds of his pillow. It had been that dream; the morbid fantasy that stalked his mind and plagued his sleep incessantly. Already it had begun to fade from his mind. In a few moments, the world that had seemed so real would become a vague, dull hollow in his memory. And yet again, it would leave nought but a lingering sense of disappointment and loss to fill the chink of emptiness.

“He stirs at last.”

His mind roused itself as the sounds of the composed monotone voice reached his ears. With a mild effort, he made to turn himself to face the source of the words. Opening his eyes slightly, he was greeted with the face of his fiancée Louise.

“I’m terribly sorry, Sir. Did I perchance hap to wake you?”

Although her tone suggested sincerity, her look of contrition was amusingly unconvincing. Slowly, a radiant smile spread out upon her features. Its luminescence was infectious, and his spirit could not help but lift – as it typically did whenever she would smile. He sat up; swinging his legs over the edge of the bedstead as he absentmindedly ran one hand through his hair, the splayed digits leisurely massaging his scalp. He blinked furiously, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other hand as he tried to shake all traces of sleep from himself.

“Sashterta…” he whispered tiredly, rolling his shoulder as he stretched his back. “Time?”

“Two till secson” she replied, twisting her fingers absentmindedly in the curtains draped along the sides of the window. His exhalation was heavy and drawn out. He glanced at the chronometer which hung from the wall, if only to confirm his suspicions. Damn, he muttered internally; he had overslept. Pressing firmly against his thighs, he pushed himself up and off of the bed to an unsteady standing position at its side. He rolled his shoulders, feeling a tight knot of tension between their blades.

“You didn’t wake me” he said as he regained his balance. He winced, in part from the general soreness he had awoken to, but also at his own words; the statement had sounded more like an accusation than he had intended. Done with his stretching, he turned to look at her; or rather, to the spot she had occupied just a moment ago.

She had opened the large, glass windows on the south side of the room and stepped out onto the balcony. Her back to him, she rested gently against the balustrade, distantly staring out at the landscape of the city in its early evening hours. If she had heard his statement, she gave no sign of acknowledgement. She simply stood in contemplation, humming snatches of something he couldn’t quite make out. Regarding her only for a moment longer, he made his way to the shower outside the room.

“Tades scye ison tebae… glosme Aes, aschee… trodeth ahk nesof taynaye… glosme Aes, aschee, aschee… slij, destahs aff wae...”

Stripping from his nightclothes, he stepped into the wash stall, shivering as his feet made contact with the cold, blue, tiled floor. Setting the timer on the flat interface console above the main spout, he adjusted the temperature of the water and pressed a finger against a smooth, raised button. He relaxed as the gentle spray washed over him, taking with it the sense of bitter foulness with which he had awoken. Almost immediately, his anxieties had begun to flee, running off his body and slipping freely down the silver drain between his feet.

Is it really today, he wondered, that I am leaving? He chuckled to himself. Of course it is, fool. Funny… I still feel like it’s yesterday, and I’ve one more day, one more meeting before today…

The next few minutes passed in relative silence. All that was to be heard were the quiet noises of the city as it began to prepare for nightfall. They drifted on the warm, melodious breeze through the open window, skewing the uncomfortable calm. He emerged from the shower, pad-footing his way to the closet to don his uniform. Louise had moved to another room, no doubt to take care of some sort of triviality, like her hair. Taking out the crisp, fresh fabric, he sent his silent thanks to the landlord who had authorized an auto-presser installation earlier that month. It was so much more convenient to have such a thing in their house. Of course, there was an element of pride to it – such a luxury was rarely found in a house like theirs; the house of a captain and a nurse.

“You know, we’ve saved a fortune since we had this thing installed,” he commented, knowing Louise was somewhere nearby.

“Sorry?”

“The press, Lou.” He heard her stomp-stomp-stomping across the floor behind him, and turned just in time to catch a glimpse of her going back out through the doors to the balcony. She must have had something on her mind – she rarely ever made noise when she walked. He positioned his belt at his hips.

“Everything’s so… the cost…”

His fingers fumbled with the clasps of his blue fleet-issue jacket. He had always found the design to be somewhat of a challenge to close properly. Designed to be discreet, they were almost invisibly small. This quality, however, whilst aesthetically pleasing, made them infuriatingly difficult to grasp. So absorbed was he with the fixing of his collar, he did not notice Louise’s return from the balcony into their sleeping quarters. He stiffened only briefly when her arms snaked around his shoulders before relaxing in her embrace.

“I haven’t said it yet, have I? Good morning.”

He turned in her arms to gently kiss the tip of her nose before pulling away to look at her face. She was smiling, he was glad to notice. It was one of her warm, genuine smiles. Nowadays, it was so rare for her, for anyone, to have the opportunity.

“It’s rather late for a “good morning”, you know.”

“Well, it’s morning for you.” Seeing his fingers still at his neck, she frowned. “Here, let me do the collar,” she said, pushing away from him slightly as her delicate, practiced fingers began to fasten the small mechanical clasps of his coat to his shirt. He let his arms drop to his sides and turned his head to the side as she completed the task.

“What was it you humming earlier?” he asked as she worked.

“Hmm?”

“On the balcony.”

“Oh.” She paused a moment, thinking. “Silly tune, isn’t it? Some Tyrr-song I heard in the square yesterday. Not sure why it stuck, really.” Her voice had lost some of its earlier cheerfulness.

She stepped back to evaluate her work.

“Turn” she said simply, motioning a spinning gesture with her hand. He rotated slowly as she inspected his Imperial dress from different angles.

“It’s alright?”

“Not quite,” she said. “Wait.” Reaching into a pocket, she produced a small, ornate pin she had received from the Church. Opening the fastener, she attached it to his collar. “There. Smart as ever.” He smiled appreciatively, running his hand through his hair. She laughed.

“What is it?” he asked, his hand still rooted to his head.

“Your hand’s in your hair again.” She said, beaming. “You always do that.”

“Hmph.” His arm quickly fell to his side.

“Never mind.” He was obviously no-longer in the mood for idle chitchat.

They both sighed, standing in silence for a moment. A look of hesitation slowly crossed her features.

“What is it?” he asked somewhat impatiently.

“I didn’t wake you” she sighed, her tone vague and reflective. He remained silent. It was true that his schedule could have been described as erratic at best now that his shore leave had drawn to a close. When he had returned to their flat from the launch briefing yesterday, he had been physically and mentally exhausted. She had awoken to find him entirely spent, sprawled lifelessly on the bed and barely half under the blankets.

“'Chance you’ll realise one day that you’re mortal after all,” she had whispered to his sleeping form. “Just like the rest of us.”

“It won’t be long” he said, internally hating how false his reassuring tone had sounded. Damned if it wouldn’t be long – six months long. The rational part of his mind understood the necessity of the six month testing period on all new ships. Officially, the Schism War had ended two years ago. However, the worlds of document and reality can be as different as night and day.

“I didn’t wake you… because I wanted you to stay here,” she turned to face him, “stay with me just a little longer.” She suddenly looked off to the side. “It was selfish of me, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Lou…” he spoke softly. “I need to do this mission. You know I need one more “in-field” before I can apply for a new posting. You know that, don’t you? Lou, look at me.” She was still avoiding his eyes. He took his hand and gently turned her face to his.

“Don’t you?” he repeated. She nodded slowly.

“Yes.” she answered, glancing quickly at the chronometer.

“Good.”

“You still have an hour before you’ve to go.” She traced the contours of his face with her hand, finally letting it rest on his chest. He sighed, taking it gently by the wrist and placing it back beside her. They stood there, joined only by their hands for several moments before he broke the silence.

“Louise, there’s something I have to see to before I leave,” he said finally, “that I promised I would see to.” His eyes were distant. She nodded in understanding.

“Father Aurelian?”

“He wishes to give me his blessings before I go,” he lied.

“How strange. He didn’t mention it to me when I saw him today,” she mused, puzzled.

“I hope he isn’t starting to forget,” he joked, hoping she wouldn’t press him further for information. She looked at him, her mouth open; horrified at his attempt at humour.

“Uncle? He’d never… do you really think? I’m a nurse… surely I’d–”

“Louise – it was a joke. A pleasantry. A jest.”

“I didn’t find it the least bit amusing.”

“I have to leave now, or I’ll run out of time.” Letting her hand fall back to her side, he made to leave the bedroom. He stopped abruptly, turning on his heel to face Louise.

“I’ll comn you as often as I can.”

“You’re absolutely terrible at goodbyes, you know,” she replied, and then, in a somewhat lighter tone of voice, she continued. “You’d better.” He smiled and promptly turned to descend the stairs. She made her way to the balcony, arriving just as the door shut one level below her. She watched him from the window as he walked briskly down the street. “You’d better,” she repeated to herself softly, leaning against the curtains for a moment before drawing them closed.