CHAOSSE
I

He prowled in a small circle like a caged beast, despite the fact that an endless expanse of plains stretched out in all four directions around him. His bare feet dug deep into the ashy surface of the ground, trailing around the edges of a small pool of a thick, congealing substance, such a deep crimson as to be almost black. His hand slowly clenched and unclenched into fists, the clawed tips of his fingers digging deep into his flesh, streams of blood flowing over his palms where they cut too deep.

The Abyss was a miserable place, probably one of the worst planes of existence ever born. It was a nearly infinite land of desolate ground, the consistency and color of soot packed thick together, dotted frequently with still pools of heavy blood. The sky sprawled above was empty of any celestial bodies—no sun hung over the horizon, no stars speckling the heavens. A red haze covered everything, a veil of crimson that smelled of death and decay. It blurred his vision, stuck in his nose and clogged his throat to near suffocation.

How could this have happened to me? More than a thousand years and still the question remained prevalent in his thoughts. He replayed the event over and over again, reliving the “end” in detail with each passing moment, agonizing over every word, every action. He had analyzed each possible angle, and yet still he could see no way out, no other choice.

You forced me! he snarled to himself. What else could I do? Offer myself up as an “honorable” sacrifice? Let you slit my throat without a fight? It was ridiculous! They had forced him into a corner—driven him to it!—and now it was he being punished! Tossed into the depths of the Abyss, locked away from the world on which he had been born and raised, there was nothing left for him to do but fume, dwelling on his hatred and his anger.

It was probably that that had transformed his appearance so much. It was said that those sealed in the Abyss had their souls twisted by the magnified feelings of hatred that burned in their veins, altering their appearance and sending their minds down the steep spiral of madness. Once the wings that unfurled from his back had been as pure white as fresh fallen snow. His hair had been downy gray, his eyes a misty, silver sheen. Now he was black from head to heel, his hair the color of ashes, his wings decorated with raven feathers. Only his eyes remained colored—red specks, burning coals surrounded by smooth, pale flesh. Even the loose, flowing robes that clothed his figure had turned black with time, stained with the brownish smears of long dried blood.

The all-consuming desire for revenge boiled in his veins. It was the only thing he yet lived for, prowling the Abyss tirelessly, dreaming with helpless frustration of the day that he would be able to destroy at last all those that had turned against him. He did not know how long he had been locked in this wretched plane—perhaps only a few years, perhaps a thousand. Too long, he thought, disgusted. Too long I have wasted away in this horrid place, dreaming of a revenge I may never see fulfilled. It was that thought that rankled most of all, a bitter poison that soured whatever hope he might have otherwise held out. There were plenty of ways to get into the Abyss, but only one way to get out of it—a Summoning. He must wait, biding his time and praying that some day, some time, one foolish mortal would call his name and—

Chaosse.

That was the name he had been given when first entering the Abyss. Once, long ago, he had had a different title—his mortal name, the title his mother had endowed on him.

Chaosse.

It was ironically similar to the travelling-tongue word ‘chaos’. He had once thought that demons had no sense of humor, though he realized now that they did, though it was a cruel and malicious one. He, an Aridal, a member of the race of half-angels, had fallen from grace so far as to be tossed into the very depths of the Abyss. He, child of one of the purest of the mortal races, only barely touched with the stain of sin, had committed the ultimate crime of murder. “Chaosse”, they had named him—Bringer of Chaos.

Chaosse.

He tilted his head up, staring into the red mist that cloaked the sky and narrowing the crimson flecks of his eyes. Someone, somewhere, was calling him—a distant and unfamiliar voice, whispering through the still air. Who calls the lost murderer, traitor of his kin? he wondered, a malicious smirk pulling up on his lips. Whoever it was, it made no difference. Anything was a welcome respite from the monotonous emptiness that penetrated to the core of the Abyss.

Chaosse.

Perhaps he was going insane. It wouldn’t surprise him, truly—insanity was an inevitable end to his stay in the Abyss. Some demons held out for thousands of years, retaining their grip on their mortal memories and their intelligence alike. Others went mad within a few weeks, their souls twisted beyond recognition and their minds lost to the grip of insatiable bloodlust. Perhaps this was the first sign of his own lunacy, this distant voice that called his name.

“Chaosse!” He jerked, the voice echoing so close and so loud that he had to clap his hands over his ears. “I call thee from thy darkness and bind thee to mine name: Remias Levalle!”

He gagged, and though he felt his knees give out beneath him, he didn’t hit the ground. His breath seared in his throat as his mind seemed to collapse in on itself, all thoughts evaporating in an instant. His entire body felt as if it had been turned inside out and wrung though, pain like bolts of lightning coursing through every nerve. Brilliant spots of light flowered before his eyes as his body slammed hard against something solid and cold. His limbs twitched uncontrollably, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“…worked! Truly I have been blessed with a great gift! The Circle of Nine will have to recognize me now—now that I have this great demon at my side!” The voice swirled up from the depths of his aching mind—the same voice he had heard whispering his name from within the Abyss. He lay against the hard surface of what seemed to be a stone floor, watching the colors swirl across his vision as control slowly snuck back into his limbs. The voice continued, rambling on as Chaosse struggled to gather the shattered remains of his thoughts.

What is this? He stared in silence, his cheek pressed to the floor as the colors that blurred his vision slowly beginning to fade away. The room around him was circular, the floors, walls, and probably the ceiling all made of plain, gray stone. Torches guttered in sconces between the wide shelves laden with old, leather-bound books that snaked along the curving wall. Papers lay scattered over the floor haphazardly and in places he could see the stark white writing of chalk etched into the rock. A figure roamed around him, the flowing hem of his robe brushing the ground lightly as he paced. He was a middle-aged man—ugly and thin with a haggard face, dark rings painted heavily around sunken eyes. His face was lit from within with some unfathomable excitement, his boney hands wringing together as he muttered to himself in a half-crazed voice.

There was a moment were everything seemed to stand still as the realization hit him. I am on the mortal plane again. He was no longer in the Abyss—he was free! He shifted, struggling to push himself to his feet. For some reason his limbs didn’t seem to want to work right and he stumbled, managing only push himself up onto his knees, his palms pressed against the stone floor. The mage paused as he moved, turning wide, gleaming eyes upon him.

“Hah!” he laughed, short and sharp, a crazed grin twitching on his lips. He stood just beyond the circle of chalk writing that surrounded Chaosse on all sides—Archaes runes, white and blatant against the gray stone. It was a Summoning Circle.

“Beautiful! Powerful! All mine!” the mage cackled, kneeling down abruptly to look Chaosse over more closely. He stared at the ugly man, his crimson eyes narrowing to slits and a silent snarl pulling back on his lips.

Yours? The word seared through his mind, burning with hatred and disgust. He struggled to rearrange his thoughts, to shape words with his mouth. It had been such a long time since he had last spoken aloud.

Yours? The word repeated. Oh yes, that was what the Elder had thought before he had stabbed him through his pitiful heart. His soul belonged to the people. That’s what the old doddering fool had said—his soul belonged to the people, and should be sacrificed for their sake, their safety. He belonged to them.

I belong to no one! His clawed fingers scratched against the stone as his hands curled into fists. His gleaming eyes widened with maddening hatred as he pushed himself up, his own rage sending strength coursing through his limbs. The mage stumbled back in surprise before pausing and laughing as Chaosse attempted to step forward. A jolt flashed up his spine as his foot brushed over the blazing white chalk that encircled him. He stepped back again, feeling the magic of the Summoning Circle push him away, locking him within. A snarl ripped from his lips and he tossed his head back, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You can’t get out from there,” the mage explained with a wide grin. “You are bound to me! I am the one who Summoned you—you cannot escape from my will! You are mine!”

I am no one’s! He lunged forward, snarling viciously as he hit the magic barrier that surrounded the white chalk, a jolt of pain screaming through his entire body. He collapsed back into the center of the circle, clutching his head as the shock reverberated through his brain. Anger boiled in his blood, so strong that he thought nothing of the pain, leaping forward again only to be pushed back once more.

“A fine specimen!” the mage cackled, consumed by his own victorious Summoning. “Winged, too! How curious. Oh yes, the Circle of Nine will be pleased. Very pleased. With this I am guaranteed to rise to fame and fortune and power!”

No, Chaosse insisted in his mind, no longer paying any heed to the mage’s mad ramblings. He was so close to freedom—only a step away from finally being able to begin his revenge. So close, and yet so far. He would not lose himself here—he would not give himself to this foolish, hideous little mortal. No…no! I belong to no one…no one! He rose, stepping to the edge of the circle and leaning forward, gasping as the pain ran through his body, pushing him farther back as he attempted to lean outward. He resisted until he felt as if his skin was afire, peeling back from his muscle. The mage watched with malicious confidence, laughing at the Abyssal demon’s pain.

No one! No one, no one, no one, no one! The words shrieked through his mind as he gritted his teeth against the pain, pressing forward. He could see! At last, he could see! The threads of magic, of life, that tied all things together, living or otherwise, shimmered before his vision. That was his magic, the magic of the Aridal people—the ability to see the very Weave of existence, to manipulate it to his own will. All he need do is cut one of those small, glittering strings and he would be free at last.

“NO ONE!” The word tore from his throat as he snarled, the threads of magic that surrounded him snapping abruptly, curling in on themselves and falling away as he burst forward. The mage fell backwards, collapsing to his knees as the demon he had thought helpless rolled forward, hitting the ground and coming up again an instant later in a feral crouch. Chaosse gasped, breathing hard and nearly collapsing again. It had been years and years since he had last used the magic of his people.

“How…?” the mage whimpered, scrambling back until he had pressed himself up against the shelving behind him. “How could you have broken free? That shouldn’t be possible! You are my Summon! How could you…?” Chaosse watched in wary silence as the mage fumbled around, grabbing book after book and tossing them aside, frantically breathing the word ‘how’ over and over again under his breath.

I had almost forgotten… Chaosse mused, a slight, cruel smile twitching up on his lips, his gaze unfocused as he traced the thin lines of magic and life that existed in all things. There were no lines in the Abyss—there he was robbed of his power, but here…Here I am unstoppable.

The present moment came back to him as one of the books the mage tossed around came skittering close to his foot, splayed open. He glanced down to it irritably before shifting his gaze over to the mage. His chin tilted up, his crimson eyes flaring and a smirk pressing up on his lips.

“Yours, am I?” the words came to him smoothly as his thoughts gathered together at one focused point. The mage froze, his mouth popping open and his eyes wide. Chaosse took one step forward, leaning down to meet the pathetic man’s eyes. He could smell the sharp tang of piss.

“I don’t think so,” he whispered, his voice a low coo of malice. One string cut and the man let out a scream as the index finger on his right hand bent backwards, snapping. Another string cut and his entire hand bent all the way back until it touched his arm. The mage writhed on the floor, the steely scent of fear vibrating in the air around him as the strings hummed. Chaosse remained perfectly still, standing like a gargoyle over the man as his mind reached out to clip the threads around him.

It was not long before the man’s screams ceased, his body twisted into an unrecognizable lump of bloody flesh. Only his head remained, sitting pristine atop the contorted maze of his gutted intestines, expression set in a death grimace. He could hear the sound of voices from without the room, banging on the door and calling out questions.

He rose slowly from his crouch, directing his gaze calmly around the circular room. There was a wooden door across the way, curved like the wall it was set in. More white chalk marks were written upon it—the Archaes runes of sealing. The mage had locked himself in and the servants beyond were helpless to enter.

So this is it, he wondered, flexing his fingers and smiling cruelly. I am free at last. So long as I don’t get killed or caught by a Banishing spell, I can remain here as long as I want. And if he had as much time on his hands as he needed, that meant that he could begin his plans. Carefully, carefully. He pushed down the bloodlust that hungered within him, knowing full well that if he acted too hastily, too rashly, he would find himself straight back where he had begun. No, he must lay his plans with patience, working from the shadows, if he ever hoped to see his dream fulfilled.

He turned towards the door, flexing his fingers again and feeling through the threads that crisscrossed the room. In a moment he had what he needed sliced in two, and the chalk markings that curled across the wooden door dispersed in a quick, quiet puff of white dust. The door opened almost instantly as the servants behind tumbled forward, falling over each other in a wide-eyed heap of surprise and confusion.

It seems I am in no hurry, he mused, eyeing the group with a cruel smirk. I suppose I could spare a little time to play…

000

Their screams echoed in his head long after they had been silenced, one after the other, each watching their companions die slowly, wracked with pain until the last breath of life was forced from their lungs. He smiled pleasantly as he came to stand before the only window in the hallway, just outside the Summoning room. His fingers flexed absently as he tugged at one of the thousands of threads that surrounded him, the glass of the window cracking and then splintering apart, shattering outwards into the sky. He strode forward smoothly, hopping easily up onto the windowsill and leaning forward. He crouched there motionlessly for a long moment, gazing out at the world beyond—the world he had been banished from so long ago.

The sun hung low, sinking slowly towards the horizon and casting fiery shadows over the sky. A light breeze drifted up from the south, carrying with it the scent of fresh rain and the fading song of soon to be sleeping birds. His gaze slid over the grassy hillside, tracing the maze of threads until he found the miniature dots of human figures moving through the fields. In the distance he could see a small farming town—a collection of huts centered around a rickety dirt road that meandered between the hills.

He tilted his chin up, narrowing his crimson eyes to slits and shifting slightly. His wings unfolded behind him, stretching out to their full, impressive length. He could feel the slight breeze that wriggled in through the window sifting through his feathers—such a comfortable sensation, and one he had not felt in so long. He closed his eyes, taking in a long, deep breath.

So much to do. He dropped forward, diving elegantly from the windowsill to plummet through the air. He allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of falling for but a moment before opening his eyes and straightening his wings. There was strength in those two extra limbs, and magic as well. In an instant his drop was suspended and he hovered in the air, slowly wafting down until his bare feet touched the ground. Shards of broken glass glittered around him in the fading light.

So much to do, and finding the right place to start seemed like an insurmountable obstacle in his path to revenge. No matter how much time he had spent brooding over the subject in the Abyss, he had yet to come up with the perfect solution. There were two fundamental problems facing him—firstly, he must find a way to get to his kin, and secondly, he must find a way to actually go about destroying them.

Cowards, he thought in disgust as he strode forward, pausing on the dirt road to glance north. His homeland lay there—the Vale, the hidden haven of his people, locked away from all contact with the rest of the world. Disgusting weaklings. Oh yes, they touted high ideals, but they were not the type to fight for their protection. They preached peace and camaraderie, but the moment things got tough what did they do? Created their own fortress to hide like the pathetic mongrels they are! Long ago, when the world was fraught with war, chaos, and bloodshed, they had retreated from the world arena despite the fact that with their ability to Weave they could have stopped the conflict in its tracks, if only they had put in a little effort. Instead they had turned their backs on all of mortal kind—they had fled.

Well, the world has gotten on well enough without you, it seems, he mused with a scowl. The only trouble was, locked away as the Vale was, his chances of returning were slim. It required one of Aridal blood to open the gates that guarded his homeland, and while he still had the ability to Weave, he was no longer technically Aridal himself. He had Fallen.

There was one chance, however.

It was an ancient Aridal tradition, created the day Imrial as a nation was born and its first ruler ascended to the throne. Every thousand or so years, when a new Imrian of royal blood took the throne, one single Aridal would be sent from the Vale to act as ambassador and advisor. Just as the Aridal people were close kin of the servants of the gods—the Angels—so were Imrian folk close descendents of the Aridal, though they had long since lost their wings. It was decided then, in the name of brotherhood and kinship, that at least one of their people would leave the Vale to guide the Imrian nation to peace and prosperity.

If I could find a way to use this to my advantage… It was impossible for him to open the gate himself, but there was at least one other in all the world who could—the advisor, living within the depths of Imrial. If he could find this long lost kin of his and somehow use him to open the gate, then at the very least he would have access to his old homeland.

Yet that still left the other problem. When it came to normal mortals, he was nearly invincible—no one could hope to equal his strength in a fight, not when he could cut the threads of life and magic themselves and Weave the Tapestry to his liking. His kin, on the other hand, were born with the same abilities as he himself, and they were much more numerous. If he entered the Vale alone he was sure to be tossed back into the depths from which he had come. It was suicide in the truest sense of the word.

“One step at a time,” he growled to himself stiffly. He must first assure access to his old homeland—or find a way to draw his kin out from it. He would plan how to destroy them as he went along. Something on the mortal plane was bound to present itself for his use.

He clenched his hands into fists, tilting his chin up and narrowing his eyes as he stared forward. He would have to find the Ambassador first, a somewhat difficult task in its very nature. He could trace the Weave to find almost anyone, but never would he be able to seek one of his own kin through it. Aridals, as masters of the Weave, were nearly impervious to its use. They knew well how to protect themselves from every form of magic, including their own. It seemed unlikely that this Ambassador would have left his guard down enough to make him traceable, whether he was expecting an attack or not.

There was another way, however. As the Ambassador, this mysterious kin of his was also the advisor to the Throne, and as such was likely to be nearby. All he need do is seek out the rightful heir to the throne, one of royal blood, and his Aridal brother would undoubtedly be somewhere close by.

It was not exactly an easy task.

The Tapestry was complex, every detail of every miniscule creation ever to have existed Woven into it, whether it be alive, dead, or inanimate. Even the memories of the past, ephemeral as they were, lived on in it. Even time itself.

The threads around him intensified, clouding his vision as he focused his eyes on the magic that thrummed throughout all things. It was a chaotic maze, a spider web, of glimmering colors that crisscrossed—twisting, intersecting, and merging upon one another seemingly without order. He sent his thoughts forward, dancing along the edges of the strings, seeking beyond—far beyond—the range of his normal sight. The one he sought existed somewhere in this unfamiliar world, and his Aridal relation was certain to be there as well.

A smirk played across his lips as he unclenched his fists, lifting his gaze to the sky. Night crept forward from the west—a wave of black that marched on heavily, leaving in its wake the thin pinpricks of light that he had not seen in so very long. She was there. Yes, a she, a Queen. Young and vibrant and strong, made of a mettle that he had thought existed in men alone. Imrians were quiet and reserved, similar in many ways to his own brethren. But this one—there was life in her. He could feel it, thrumming in the thread that anchored her to this world. There was more as well, but she was far away, and from such distance the threads were difficult to read.

It was enough. She was there.