THE VOID
NULL
The void to James was the silent exhale of a raging storm; turbulent, murky. It was the taste of shadows on snow; cold, wintry. It was the gap between consciousness and unconscious; a soft touch—the finale after the climax of mortal liveness. In it everything is meaningful and meaningless, through ups and downs; in the hazy fog of awareness—neither strong nor supple—unified as a single haunt.
The Silence.
It does not even interest him anymore, the once curiously overwhelming stillness now calming; boring. Mundane. A dull ringing in his head; an everlasting cycle, where sound has no path, and light, the weight of a star, but seldom espied.
…it hurts.
Through these ponderously hollow days of postmortem nostalgia, under the weight of boundless desolation, James walked. Once upon a time, he would weep in ambivalent longing, a pair of misty, ethereal eyes, emblems of his grief; an aching void; a barren heart in the evanescent stillness. Then he wept no more. The futility drowned out his hopes, garotting his yearnings with a rather relentless zest. In the void, the emptiness remains ever-fertile, and suffering, permanent.
Why?
Before him was a trail of bone-white cobblestones, forming a floating pathway through the great barren expanse. With each step he took, his bare feet tapped inaudibly on the unstable rocks; the manifestation of his Johnny gown rustling mutedly as it trailed along with his ethereal form. Once upon a time, James would ponder, sometimes serenely, sometimes not, upon the unnerving implications borne as a result of his current existence. He no longer cared though, not even as the remnants of other lost souls lingering in the void caressed him rather disturbingly—the numbing obscurity tainted by their ghastly remains. He could still sense it, the unease that permeated this plane; the resentment and discontent that imbued the very essence of this existence. Yet so, he walked his path, in silence.
He knew not how far he had travelled. Or how long; for it could have been a mere moment, stretched beyond belief, or an eternity. It was disconsolate how little the difference mattered here. How insignificant all he once held dear was in the face of a timeless continuance.
James stopped—bobbing almost comically on a single, teetering foothold—to stare curiously at a flaring orb of light suspended in the void to his right: In the near-perpetually barren void, a rather rare, if odd, sight indeed. Strange it was, being able to see it without truly seeing; able to feel its consoling warmth, an assuring certainty that it was there, without truly feeling. Familiar in a way James could not recall. Hazy, but familiar.
Beneath this miniature star was another separate… space. A wormhole. Akin to a gate to another state of existence. An emptiness within another. One whose very existence defied all conventional logic. And floating within this said void were several phantasmal figures intermittently phasing in and out of existence. They were restrained at the feet by ethereal tethers that extended back beyond the rim of the ‘gate’. Though they floated around blindly, they never wandered out. Seemingly… afraid.
Curious, James lightly hopped forward leaving the surety of the stone path to stop near the rim of the gate. Peering in, he eagerly extended a finger into the void to touch one of the smoky spectres within before, just as quickly, retracting the appendage. With a suppressed wince, his fascinated gaze paned from his slightly faded finger to the stygian beings trapped beneath the orb of light.
“I would be more careful if I were you,” a voice drawled, breaking the solemn, seemingly nigh-unbreakable silence. “They are called voidlings; intriguing, yes, but given they subsist entirely on transmatter they would be quite lethal to a being such as yourself.”
James looked up, stunned. “Who?” he asked.
“The name’s Hue Dwyn but you can refer to me as the Ordinator—” A burst of static”—hat’s yours, stranger?”
“…James. James Earl.”
“Lovely to make your acquaintance Mr Earl,” the one referred to as Hue replied. “I am aware how sudden my appearance here might seem, but so as not to waste both our time—a very precious resource these days—I am here to offer you a contract; one in which a return trip to the physical plane would be arranged for you as well as a physical vessel to house your unbound soul upon arrival. In exchange, you would be consenting to participate in a privately funded experimental program after which your soul would be recovered and stored in stasis for future research.”
Silence.
“…What?”
“Is there a problem, Mr Earl?”
James was confused. “Is this a joke?”
“No, I am very much serious, Mr Earl.”
More silence.
“…Are you aware of what you just requested of me?” James asked, left brow raised in doubt. “Did you really expect me to accept this… contract?”
“Indeed, I did,” Hue replied, humming sagely. “Though your refusal might prove a tad… problematic. For one, moving this anchor point here cost the corporation a lot of resources, and given my calculations already showed that you fulfilled three of the most important criteria—amorality, opportunism and adaptability—I would find it hard to explain to top brass why your recruitment failed. Also, there’s the issue of leaving a rare asset like yourself to waste away and be digested by the void.”
“I will be… digested?”
“Eventually,” Hue replied, somewhat dismissively. “While your innate resistance and impressive perception of self might offer some protection to your transmatter core from the twilight sea’s corrosion you only have another three dozen lightspans or so before you are fully assimilated and recycled.”
Another burst of static.
James fell silent as his inscrutable gaze wandered from the orb to the void behind him; the cold sensation of remnant souls caressing his skin intensifying.
“You still haven’t explained to me how being a lab rat for presumably all of eternity is better than the alternative,” James asked, turning to face the orb, appearing perturbed.
“…If you could give me a moment,” Hue replied before murmuring faintly, seemingly to himself. “Now where did I drop that brochure?.. Ah! Found it. Ahem. I could enlighten you on our sustainability goals for the next two hundred lightspans, as well as the positively cosmos-friendly, relatively safe and harmless nature of the program if that would assuage some of your doubts.”
A pregnant pause filled the void.
More static.
“No, please enlighten me on how that might help assuage my many, many doubts?” James finally asked, his tone taking on a guise of polite curiosity, irritated.
“It worked once before,” Hue replied, his shrug palpable from his tone alone.
“…Could I at least get more information; what the program is about or what the end goals of the organisation you represent are for instance?”
“Mostly raw data for research purposes as well as a few other things.”
“Ok?”
“Like I said, mostly raw data. I am sorry, Mr Earl, but any additional information is considered classified, hence, I am required by my NDA to enforce its secrecy.”
“Sure…” James replied, doubtful, ‘but can I at least know the name of the organisation offering to me what I assume should be a legal agreement?’
“Absolutely… not, Sir James. Classified.”
Silence.
“I could enlighten you further on our sustainability goals for the next two hundred lightspans if you are still interested,” Hue offered again.
“This is one very shady deal,”
“But you are obviously interested, or, at the very least, curious. So, do we have an agreement?” Hue asked, clearly unperturbed.
There was another pause. A beat of hesitation. Then…
“Fine,” James shrugged, letting his crossed arms fall back to his sides, “where do I sign?”
“I approve of that decision, Mr Earl.” James tsked in response. “I’m sure you do.”
“What would I be doing anyway?” He asked, his gaze wandering back towards the wormhole beneath his feet. ‘Are there any specific instructions I need to follow or―’
“Very well,” Hue lilted, interrupting him. “Your Transdimensional ID has been issued, approved and added to the database. Please standby for transfer; temporal link established; transferring… Now.”
The Ordinator fell silent for a moment before adding. “Lovely working with you, Mr Earl, safe travels. And good luck, you are going to need it down there.”
‘…Huh? Wait, what is that supposed to―’
***
Bycrest.
07.13.1623
The screams of bloodied beasts, the thunderous rasp of iron striking iron, the boom of cannons and the barbarous shouts of war. An inhumane cacophony of noises rang throughout the capital. All around was nothing but a whirlwind of violence, confusion and disorder, a blur of despairing colour and vicious motion.
War; A bloody brawl of men clashing savagely in alleyways, on muddy roads and cobblestone streets, cutting each other down like scythes on ripe autumn wheat. Their parched, panting tongues collected the dust-choked air which intermixed with the bitterness of iron and copper. Deafening—blood pounded in their ears, drumming to a ferocious beat inside their helmets. Invaders bearing the insignias of Hertalean households had breached the bastion, Maira; with the aid of traitors, they pierced a bloody line through to the capital, setting ablaze all that stood in their way, desiring the fall of the Algrian royal castle. The defending Algrian fighters fought back valiantly. The prolonged battles and their heavy weapons had started to take a toll on their mortal forms; but they persisted still, charging forth, fighting to reclaim lost ground, with unyielding spirits in the face of the enemy. Far off in the distance perched on the crownwork of another bastion, a tall man, the commanding duke dressed in a dark, slightly blood-stained suit of armour, watched the battlefield with a detached gaze in his edgy, blue eyes. He sat upon a majestic black steed, the late autumn wind blowing through his hair. His gore-sprayed helmet hung cradled in the crook of his arm as thin lines of sweat dripped down his sculpted visage, stinging at his eyes like tiny vipers.
“It appears we are still losing ground, Your Majesty,” Duke Aden said gruffly, his tone cold and hard even as he stared at the rising smoke in the distance. “The city watch, even with the aid of the King’s Guard and my best men, would not be able to hold Trost bastion. Same as with bastions Sina and Rose. Reports say less than three stores of powder from the armoury remain, the rest lost. Our cannons will fall silent before nightfall: It is only a matter of time before those pillaging bastard sons of cuckolds finally breach our defences.”
By the duke’s side sat a younger man—most likely in his early thirties—on a white steed of his own as he gazed out at the battle that lay before him. His Majesty wore a suit of armour wrought of silvery steel polished to a near mirror-like gleam over his tall, fairly well-built form. His weary gaze slid from the morbidly picturesque scenery in the distance to face the duke, and then, he sighed. Crestfallen.
“True,” King Leonard replied in agreement. “Though, I never thought it would come to this, brother.”
“Neither did I, Your Majesty” The duke replied.
A pause. A rather long one indeed. Contemplation.
“…Aden.”
“Speak your mind, Sire.”
Another pause; shorter this time. Hesitation, then another self-deprecating sigh.
“Flee,” the king said finally. “Take my Queen and heir with you and flee. The tunnels to the west; my beloved knows of them; She will guide you.”
“This? Your Majesty-”
“Aden. Please.”
The young sovereign looked away from the onslaught with a small, pained smile. His ice-blue irises gazed at the duke, seeming to have seen through all the vicissitudes of life. A gust of wind blew, tossing his blond hair in the air and for the briefest of moments, time appeared frozen in place.
“This is punishment for my frankly foolish optimism, a tribulation I must face alone, as per my oath and royal obligation,” Leonard sighed. “I see no benefit in dragging those I cherish down along with me. This is for me to face alone.”
Aden held his gaze for a few tense moments before nodding, his stoic expression unchanging.
“If this is what you command, your Majesty, then I must comply,” the duke replied, nudging his steed as he turned to leave.
“But remember this, Leonard…” with his back still to the king, he spoke again.
“Hmm?” The young king gave a questioning hum without turning to face the duke.
“Stay alive. If you die―”
“Don’t worry,” Leonard chuckled ruefully, ”I won’t. This sovereign is not so easily slain. Be on your way, brother. May the ancestors be with you.”
With that Duke Aden left his liege and sworn brother behind to his fate.
Disclosable information
- 07.13.1623S.T. (The seventh day of the thirteenth month, Aten, of the Year 1623. Symfora Telos.)
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Bastion wall/fort- A bastion fort is a fortification in a style that evolved during the early modern period of gunpowder when the cannon came to dominate the battlefield. It was first seen in the first half of the century shortly after the introduction of gunpowder weapons in Verum, Anno.
