Master of the Loop - Chapter 154: Truths Forgotten

Chapter 154

Truths Forgotten

Valen could fly, the Prince realized. From Sylas’ back, it was as though he grew wings and they fluttered–and he took to the grand skies, slowly descending toward the sight that took his breath away. The one-eyed man stood rooted in place, the world round him dancing and flowing. And Valen was flying.

He could not reconcile the feeling, and tears began to stream down his sunken, still pale cheeks. He was overwhelmed, from the depths of his soul and outwardly. Though he could not stretch his legs and walk or run like the wind, he could fly. And thus, he did. Extending his arms out like a bird, he engrossed himself in the sensation–the tiny tinglings that spread throughout his body like tiny needles prickling him, ensuring he always felt.

It could not be described, the feeling. Not to those who could walk, not to those who could run. Not to those who didn’t see the world as an endless string of obstacles to overcome. They could all fly with the wind as he did as a boy–he’d spread his arms and run across the Markel’s Fields and run through the rooted Aeenwoods, and then he would swim across the Kimelan River, from one bank to the other. He would never be breathless, and his feet would never tire. As a little boy, he had an inexhaustible source of energy within him. And now, as a grown man, that source was dead. Killed. Obliterated.

But now, once again, he was a boy–the ills of the world vanished, for he could fly. The skies shifted their hue and the grass grew and he was back in the yellow fields of Markel. He recalled the gran who sold bread telling him tales–of how the First Men plowed the fields and awoke the Giant who gave them the Fire under the promise of leaving the field alone. And thus, the men listened–for the kindle of fire was worth more than the seed of wheat.

He would run, as a little boy, for hours, hoping his tiny feet would stomp the giant’s head and awaken him. But his tiny legs nary ever left a footprint. By now, the world had forgotten he had ever run through that place, through the yellow, waist-high grass that never grew, that never withered, that never changed its perpetual, Autumn hue. Even he had forgotten, drowned in the lull of hubris. But he remembered, once again. Not only remembered–but he lived.

Breathing in full, he felt his lungs expand and his vision sharpen–his view expanded beyond the seemingly endless tips of mountains, beyond the lifeless rock and stone. On its other end was a long-winding, sandy shore of white. And beyond the shore was a beautiful sea. And in the beautiful sea, he saw fishes that resembled things indescribable. And beyond the beautiful sea and all its odd and queer life, he saw new lands–some rocky like his homeland, some frosted, some yet churned in fire, and some doused in eternal summers, their ground earth home to ever-living green.

The whole of the world seemed to expand before his eyes–all of its many corners, all of its many places, all of its many homes. The tears continued to stream, for he was overwhelmed. It was all beyond beautiful–yet staggeringly tragic. For in each corner, for in all the places, and through all of the homes… there was strife. War. Sorrow. Screams and wails and perpetual fire that burned hot and scalding. Armies conquered and armies fell, Kings and Queens of immortal dynasties perishing overnight. Heroes of ages gone and to come falling to chutzpah. He’d seen it all, like a continuous cycle of persistent failure that nobody ever learns from.

And yet, even in such agony, there was a beauty. Men drank and sang together, and children’s roaring laughter was a melody that eclipsed the horrors of wars and pain. From the ashes of decay, new grandeur arose, more emboldened with glory than the one before it. Bit by bit, like these rocks, they built a mountain. And someday, someday in the far distant feature, one so distant that it escaped even his sight, those mountains would be tall enough, just like these–they’d enshroud a home that would never die.

His flight came to an abrupt end and he found himself seated inside a hall clad in pure, white marble. It was akin to a palace from those distant histories, where even Gods came to rest. In front of him was the one-eyed man, and to his sides were Sylas and Asha, both with alarmed expressions, yet seemingly incapable of doing anything. But Valen… the Prince was not afraid. Instead, he was calm. Calmer than he had ever been before in his life.

“Did you see?” the one-eyed man asked, his tone calm and loving.

“I saw,” Valen replied, smiling faintly.

“What was it like?”

“Breathtaking,” the Prince responded after a momentary silence, his mind wandering back to the sights.

“The world tends to be,” the man said, tilting his head to the side slightly, smiling. Behind him, white cloth in the shape of a banner stretched into the high ceiling, hanging from it, though lacking an emblem. “Are you curious? What this place is?”

“Very,” Valen said. “What happened to them?” he asked about Sylas and Asha. He didn’t think for a second either of the two would remain silent all this while.

“Nothing,” the man replied. “However, they do not have the String. They can observe but never interact. After all, all this is a recording in the Mausoleum of the World, accessible only by those who can witness it. The two of them, though grander in many other ways, fall short of the Pillar.”

“String? So, Sylas was right?” Valen mumbled. “My String… is important?”

“All Strings are important,” the man said. “Some more so than others. After all, the Strings are what weave the tapestry of the Mortal World. And you, young one, are its Prince.”

“…” Valen fell silent, feeling the weight of the sky press down on him. All of this still felt unreal, strange, as though he were dreaming.

“Long, long, long ago,” the one-eyed man said. “There was only one world–it was called Aethernium. All of life existed in this world–there were humans, all manner of them. There were giants, thralls, gods, dragons, devils… the world was vast but peaceful. It went on for time uncountable. But then… Visitors came.”

“Visitors?”

“Creatures from the Gaps,” the one-eyed man continued as the world behind him suddenly vanished, turning dark and turpid. From within that darkness, Valen saw flickering eyes beginning to emerge. “From the places unapproachable. The Visitors… were beyond reproach. It wasn’t the matter of mere strength–they were unfathomable, unyielding, untouchable.”

“Did they… did they destroy Aethernium?”

“No,” the man shook his head, the scene behind him remaining still and stifling. In the darkness, there were countless stars–as though it was a cosmos. But… those stars were actually eyes. Of how many creatures? “Instead, they sold favors.”

“H-huh?”

“One day,” the man continued, ignoring Valen’s confusion. “A God approached one of the Visitors. They asked, Mighty One, could I have Your strength? — the Visitor, after deliberation, replied–If but for a Moment–and for a Price. And thus… the War of Creation began.”

“–!!!” Valen’s heart shook, blood in his veins freezing.

“The grand skies of Aethernium shook and trembled and bled… and they faltered,” the man’s voice seemed like a song, slowly rising and falling, like a melody. “The shards splintered and raced across the vastness… with the two largest staying near each other. One became the second Aethernium, the Realm of Gods–for all rest of the Creation was either banished or exterminated. And the second world–the second world became ours, the world of mortals. Chains were cast from above unto us, and Gods’ Will was imposed. We became servants and sang songs in their names, all so we could continue to live.

“But we were not defeated, not truly. After all, many wars would come to burn the skies thereafter. And soon, the favors had to be paid to the Visitors. The debt must be nulled, one way or another. There used to be 9,999 Gods when the Mortal World first became–and by the time of my Fall, there were two thousand fewer.”

“…” Valen remained silent, incapable of truly processing everything he was being told.

“The Cord seems to have been cut wholly long after my time. But do not be mistaken, young Prince–Gods are always watching. And those who love Them are always praying. One way or another, the Bond Between the Worlds shall be reestablished. And another War, undoubtedly, shall be waged, as many times before. It shall be your job, my Prince, to lead the Mortal World into that war as its head.”

“W-what?!!” Valen exclaimed in horror. Lead–lead the War… against Gods?!

“Strings are woven through the lineages of innumerable Kings and Queens of the Mortal World,” the one-eyed man continued. “But only one is the heritage of the true Emperors of Aethernium. After all, during the War of Creation–or, rather, during the Fall thereafter–all of the exorcised Creation united in creating your Gift–the Eye, they called it. One Gaze to see past the Dark, into the Abyss, where the Unspeakable hide. To see the truths and lies of all–and to wash away their fears. One Gaze to demolish the illusionary barriers. One Gaze to see the Gods’ True Forms, and convince the Mortalbloods of the Cause.

“You, young Prince, have the Eye,” the man said, suddenly pointing to his forehead. “As did I. And as I had seen all those eons ago, you, too, must see. After all, the Eye… is the creation of the Visitors. Unlike the Gods’, however, our Debt has been paid–all races but humans… Fell permanently. Became one with the Unspeakable. All the Dragons, the Thralls, the Giants, the Aeffors you shall see… they are all fakes. Imitations you have to cut down. They are a disgrace, after all, to the truth–the ultimate sacrifice that all but a few had forgotten. Your String was made by the blood of the countless. And it has but one purpose–to see the Truth past the woven lies.”