《PhiOrg - Tales from the Multiverse》 The Citadel
On the outskirts of the multiverse lies a Citadel, out of which the Phi Organization does its work. PhiOrg works where the physical, metaphysical, and ''pataphysical intersect. It archives the many worlds, alone, concealed, and prohibited from intervening in their happenings. Its Citadel lies hidden from the worlds, rising like Delphi yet concealed like Shambhala in the mountains of spacetime. Standing unsupported in the ylem, its many pillars and spires rise from the fog of ages. Every inch of it is covered in the same dim light, as if emitted from an invisible full moon. Matte black figures move across its non-euclidean, stone-brick surfaces with ease. They look mostly the same; void-like wisps, morphing as the situation dictates but always returning to the same shape. One such figure floats across an ephemeral bridge and through a doorway, gliding past halls and halls of archived material. It holds a nebular tablet in its temporary tendrils. Entering a small archway, a massive arena of cells emerges before it. The cells expand upwards and down infinitely, maintaining a dome-like appearance no matter how far one moves vertically. A giant humanoid, its legs as wide as mountains, sits chained in the center. Its monitor head watches the cells as if in a panopticon. In one such cell, an unusual figure is engrossed in their work. They''re a different figure from the others. They take a humanoid shape and wear a pure black hat atop their equally colorless head. No matter the circumstance, they always return to this shape. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Like a merchant of yore, this figure shifts beads across an invisible thread like an abacus. These beads are pure perceptions, copies of existences - in other words, records. With each stroke, the figure sorts through thousands of lives, thousands of stories, and strings them together into compendiums, ensuring no act goes unnoticed, no song left on deaf ears. As it reaches for new records, handling them as if they were marbles, it witnesses them unfold in their completion.
One bead shows glimpses of an intergalactic war, technocrats and zealots reducing planets to embers in a cosmic fire. Another shows a child watching a bug and entering a meditative trance. Widows cry, volcanoes erupt, planets are born, microbes eat one another... The figure from earlier enters the cell. The hatted figure turns, still shifting beads, and the two convene. They speak without words, learn without misunderstanding, transmitting pure thoughts. Our hatted figure learns it is now their turn to be an Operative - to go into the many worlds and make new records, not merely shift the others around. Operatives take nothing but photos and leave nothing but small spatiotemporal disturbances in the fabric of reality. They''re hesitant, unsure what to do. They''ve waited outside of time for such an opportunity to appear. Yet, jostling stories around is different from going out and capturing your own, displaying them for others to see. Silently, the hatted figure accept the role and is transferred the tablet. They leave the bounds of their cell and fly out into the void, the tablet warping and contorting reality around it. As the warping ceases, the hatted figure finds themselves in a bustling marketplace. Creatures of an arachnid race surround them, carrying energy crystals and strange cuisines in sacs on their backs. They gesture into the tablet, reality morphing around him once-more. The spiderfolk turn into clouds of dust in a protoplanetary disk. A solar system is born before their eyes.
Many leave the Citadel to take records - to write down the many Tales of the Multiverse. These are the tales of one such Operative. SNAPDRAGONS
¡°Are you sure about this?¡± she asks skeptically.
¡°We¡¯ll be OK, I promise.¡± In truth, he didn¡¯t know if it was safe. He¡¯d been second-guessing himself since they entered the mountain. But he had faith in where they were going. He looks down once more at the strip of paper in front of him. An address he can barely make out, with a very clear drawing of a flower taking up half the page.
The couple works their way through the district¡¯s winding streets and alleys. Being built, quite literally, inside the mountain, the district grew darker and darker as they ventured further. Flashing neon signs and halogen lights abound, the locals too poor to afford the holographic displays seen downtown. A few storefronts are entirely candlelit. Signs outside the buildings are written in many alien scripts, a stark contrast to the Three Universals seen downtown.
This mountain, located on the outskirts of a bustling spaceport city, falls into a legal loophole which landowners took advantage of to create extremely low-rent housing. In the years since, the district has housed all manner of creature and culture from across the stars. Locals aren¡¯t dressed in the business suits and flashy garb of the tourists. They wear their native clothes in varying states of dishevelment. They speak their native tongues, sell the wares they made on their home planets, and pray to their own gods and divinities. They go about their daily business - but not without commotion.
A catfolk vendor and a rocklike customer argue over the sale of a melon. They speak in a language neither of our couple understands, though the lady can make out a few swears here and there. Frustrated, the customer smashes the melon on the ground. The vendor screams and leaps out at the customer, claws exposed. Further down, a huge amoeba purchases groceries from a six-armed grocer, absorbing the produce in vacuoles and carrying on. A crab-like creature with a broken leg plays an erhu for tips. A ferocious sculpture is repaired by an avian outside a temple, resembling something like a cross between Jesus, an octopus, and a twelve-armed bloodthirsty warlord.
The two search the crowds and storefronts for the flower, but can¡¯t find it anywhere. Florists, grocers, co-op gardens, even clothing stores and wallpaper prints. None of them have that exact flower. They ask any and all locals they run into for directions. Of the ones they talk to, none of them seem to recognize it - not the writing, nor the design inside.
But they didn¡¯t let the city pass them by. The two also used the chance to explore the district¡¯s exotic amenities, to have a little fun in-between. They stopped for beverages at a stall and watched a worm drummer¡¯s performance (which had been going on for five days prior). They spent some credits at a dance-machine with options for up to eight limbs. They stopped by an arcade and, mesmerized, watched a molluscan play Tetris for¡­ much longer than they should have. They skimmed the various shops of the district, even if they couldn¡¯t make out most of the signs and prices. Small trinkets of varying toxicity and beauty here and there, books and tablets and drives of any and all knowledge, knock-off brands alongside relics - and, of course, folks peddling them at each and every corner.
¡°Buy some alum-venom! Fresh alum-venom!¡± A naga merchant peddles the couple in a raspy voice, flashing a brown vial in their faces. ¡°Does wonders to a mammal¡¯s skin!¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t that stuff toxic?¡±, she responds.
The snake vendor hisses, and the couple hurry out of the vendor¡¯s reach, clasping each other¡¯s hands and running for dear life.
Now out of sight of the vendor, the two end up lost. This part of the district is dark and damp, and nobody else seems to be present. They see a series of pools, water filling them from the ceiling and draining below. The fun and joviality they experienced not too long ago now fills with a lingering sense of unease.
¡°Maybe we should ask someone for directions,¡± she says.
Reluctantly, he obliges. They keep walking until they spot a storefront with someone sleeping outside. It¡¯s a stout figure, wearing an officer¡¯s cap, bearing two turquoise arms and legs attached to a turtle-like shell. Underneath the cap is a single shut eye the size of a basketball.
¡°Entschuldigung?¡± He cycles through a few more languages before the figure acknowledges. ¡°Excuse me, sir?¡±
The eye opens, and the figure awakes. The eye rises from the shell, revealing a mouth and a neck that slowly extend to a height nearly twice that of the lovers. A low-pitched gurgle resounds from the figure¡¯s shell.
Our Romeo gulps, swallowing his fear.
His Juliet gasps, but stands her ground.
The figure¡¯s eye wanders for a minute before spotting the couple. The figure gurgles once more, then speaks. ¡°Oh! Yes. Sorry. Forgot I was on dry land. Can I help you?¡± Its voice is shrill and hoarse, like an out-of-tune violin.
He composes himself. ¡°I need help finding this address. Do you know where it is?¡±
The figure bends its neck and reads his page. ¡°Yes, I know where this is.¡± It thinks for a minute, then motions its nightstick to its left. ¡°Go down that alley a few blocks. Take the staircase up¡­¡± it counts on its fingers ¡°¡­four levels. You¡¯ll see a store with votive candles directly to your right. Go right and continue that way until the lights turn blue.¡±
He takes a minute to note the directions in his head. ¡°Thank you, sir.¡±
¡°Anytime.¡± The figure gets up from its seat, gurgling, and descends into a nearby pool. As it submerges, the gurgling turns into the baritone humming of a foreign tune.
After taking the (surprisingly long) staircase up and walking past the votive candle shop (made from skulls), the two end up in a small back-alley filled with rugged housing. A couple of the streetlights are out. There isn¡¯t a single flowerbed or touch of green anywhere. ¡°This is supposed to be the place.¡±
The two of them look around for any signs of the flower, but the badly lit corridor makes figures hard to discern. Dejected, they turn around to look for someone to help them. Due to the dim lighting, she trips on a loose stone in the road, and he leaps on the ground to break her fall. Tending her wound, he spots something out of the corner of his eye. It¡¯s a sign. There¡¯s nothing written on it, just a graphic hidden under a dead streetlight. He approaches the sign. It¡¯s got that same drawing of the flower on it. Stolen novel; please report.
¡°This is it! This has to be the place!¡±
She walks over to the sign. ¡°Are you sure this is it?¡±
¡°It has to be.¡±
¡°But are you sure this is the place?¡±
There¡¯s a moment of tense silence. ¡°No.¡±
A wooden door with a doorhole sits next to the sign. He knocks on it thrice. They await a response.
The doorhole opens. Two steely eyes stare from it.
¡°Hi, I was invited here by a friend?¡± He puts the paper in view of the doorhole. ¡°This is Gabriel Lennox.¡±
The figure reads the paper. ¡°Ah, yes, we¡¯ve been expecting you. Come in.¡±
The door opens, revealing an ashen-skinned waiter with cobalt hair and two ram-like horns. They enter the building and find themselves directly beside a kitchen. ¡°This is the staff entrance. I¡¯ll take you to the host.¡±
The kitchen itself seems as diverse and bustling as the rest of the district. An elephantine sous-chef prowls the kitchen, keeping it running like a well-oiled machine. Actually, ¡®well-oiled machine¡¯ isn¡¯t a bad analogy for the rest of the restaurant, either. Giant cogwheels, some moving, some stationary, line the walls and make up some of the chairs. Steam can be seen emanating from pipes in and out of the kitchen. The whole place is lit in warm colors. Unlike the rest of the district, the fact you¡¯re inside a mountain is made very well known here. The walls proudly display their stony texture, with a few ores exposed here and there for decorative effect.
The group travels upstairs. The air seems to be easier to breathe now. More tables are visible, some already being seated. The waiter leaves them on a platform near a giant axle in the center of the place. The axle rises from a rather large hole in the ground, burning embers lying many meters below. The hole is stagnant at first. Then, a gust of hot air emerges, sparks from a newly lit fire below barely missing the couple¡¯s feet. Seconds later, a dragon emerges. The girl is horrified; the boy grips her hand and the two take a huge step back.
¡°Hey, you made it!¡± The dragon speaks in a surprisingly soft, almost comical voice. ¡°Welcome to Snapdragon¡¯s. It¡¯s great seeing you again, Gabriel.¡±
¡°You know this dragon?¡±, she asks Gabriel.
¡°We go back a bit.¡±
The dragon turns to her. ¡°Ah, this must be your ladyfriend. What¡¯s your name?¡±
¡°Ruby,¡± she responds hesitantly.
¡°Pleasure to meet you.¡± The dragon whips his tail around and slowly places its tip in front of her. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, it¡¯s prehensile.¡±
She stands there, a little bewildered. Gabriel motions for Ruby to shake it like a hand. She does, and the dragon smiles.
¡°I¡¯ll take you to your seats. I saved the best in the house for you two.¡±
The dragon walks them further through the restaurant. The place is surprisingly spacious, and the dragon isn¡¯t too large - about the size of a minivan - so he walks ahead of them with little discomfort.
Gabriel and the dragon do a little catching up, while Ruby follows and takes in the scenery. She notices a piano played by an octopus-like creature in the distance, playing a calming and somewhat jazzy tune. A shadowy, almost fluid character stands by with a saxophone in hand. Parties made of smoke and scale, fur and feather, plasma and precious gem, sit at the other tables dressed in their best. She sees old friends re-uniting, family junctions, business dinners, and other couples out enjoying themselves.
¡°I got this whole place for cheap¡±, the dragon says. ¡°It used to be a warehouse. The company folded a while ago and left some of their machinery behind. A dozen weeks later, I refashioned it all into Snapdragon¡¯s.¡±
¡°Why a restaurant? In this part of the port, nonetheless?¡±
¡°Same reason as everyone else. The rent¡¯s cheaper. The neighborhood is¡­ variable, sure. But you can prosper here in a way you can¡¯t downtown. You¡¯re not under the microscope.¡±
¡°How¡¯s it working out for you?¡±
¡°Pretty well so far. But, you know how restaurants are. Most of them close within three years of opening. Very few survive more than ten.¡±
¡°Have you tried advertising the place?¡±
The dragon scoffs. ¡°I¡¯m not the best at advertising, but we seem to do alright with the word-of-mouth we get.¡±
¡°Could you have made the invitation a little less cryptic, at least?¡± Gabriel laughs a little saying this.
¡°Yes, I suppose I could¡¯ve. But then it wouldn¡¯t have been as fun for you two to find.¡±
The dragon turns to look directly at Gabriel. Gabriel can see anguish in the dragon¡¯s eyes, betraying the smile just below. He¡¯s covered in a number of obscured bruises. The dragon¡¯s voice softens further, and he moves in closer. ¡±I¡¯ve lost a lot these past few years.¡± He looks to his side, then sighs. ¡°A lot of things have gone wrong. Things I¡¯d rather not think about. Things that keep me up at night. You¡¯ve seen sides of me I¡¯m not proud of.
¡°But through it all, you¡¯ve been there. You¡¯ve always been a shoulder to cry on, someone to look forward to talking with.
¡±There¡¯s an old Earthlander saying: ¡®Friends are like the stars; you can¡¯t always see them, but they¡¯re always there.¡¯ I¡¯d like to think that holds true with you. Our friendship has changed, but I¡¯m glad to have it.
¡±You¡¯ve done more for me than you can imagine. Now,¡± the dragon says, motioning to the balcony, ¡°it¡¯s time for me to repay the favor.¡±
The couple ascends the staircase to the balcony, and the dragon readies their table. Ruby and Gabriel take their seats, and are taken aback by the view. As it turns out, this warehouse was built close to the surface of the mountain. Our dragon friend broke through part of it and made a balcony with a view of the entire spaceport caldera. The digital and holographic displays of downtown turn into brilliant pastels on an otherworldly canvas. High-rises soar and show their lustrous designs. Even the advertisements, once a pedestrian¡¯s eyesore, now seem like gentle brushstrokes of some greater beatific mural. Spaceships can be seen flying through the sky, reduced to the size of birds by their distance. And encapsulating it all are the other mountains of the caldera, rising like Fuji over the Tokyo horizon, painted shades of pink and purple by the setting sun¡¯s light.
The couple is entranced by the view. Ruby reaches her hand across the table toward Gabriel¡¯s. He notices, and reciprocates. The two¡¯s eyes catch, and they both smile at each other in a way only lovers can. They turn once more to the landscape before them, taking it all in.
It was their landscape now. Theirs to share, theirs to enjoy. The Madwoman of the Steppes
(Artwork: "King Gesar", Nicholas Roerich, 1941) When the world was young, Quasicrimson took it upon himself to be the ¡°Shaker of Worlds¡±. Aside from being a general nuisance in the heavens, Quasicrimson would periodically descend to the world and shake things up when they got too stale. He was forgotten to all except Sakura, the King of the Gods, and a few mystery cults hidden in the mountains of the world. Now, Quasicrimson decided it was time to act. The world had grown quite stale indeed; a serpentine empire spanned its surface, regimented in every facet of life and soulless in its dogma. What was once filled with the free trade of ideas and goods now ground to a lifeless, monotonous halt. And as was below, so was above. At the empire¡¯s head were a grand emperor and empress, both experiencing fertility issues. Once they expected their firstborn, Quasicrimson decided to act. As was tradition, they called in a midwife to aid the process, once with a talent for the earthly magics and sciences. When the baby was born, Quasicrimson swooped in and removed the girl from the midwife¡¯s arms. The royals were appalled to find their child missing, and had the midwife interrogated and imprisoned. Halfway across the kingdom, the renegade god placed the infant in a crevice in the ground, snug and safe. The child was found by nomads who wandered these distant steppes. Not being too creative, they named her ¡®Foundling¡¯.
Her childhood was spent roaming the frontiers of the kingdom with her adoptive family, riding horses, learning to use every part of a yak, and migrating through miles of mountains and valleys. Occasional fights would emerge with other clans, but their lives were spent for the most part following herds with the change of seasons. Shamanistic rituals and offerings to local spirits were the only breaks they had in their itinerant lives. Skull cups, daggers, animal blood; flowers, incense, sweet nectars of springtime. The rituals were coarse, but meaningful. They were meant to reflect their world ¡ª one of change, uncertainty, and freedom that comes with accepting these facts. One winter, a caved-in mountain pass forced their clan into unfamiliar territory. It was at this time that guards from the kingdom began patrolling the frontiers, arresting ¡°barbarians¡± and ¡°practitioners of witchcraft¡±. The king had a vengeance, and so did his god, say the priests. When Foundling¡¯s clan was seized, she was away skinning a lamb at a watering hole. She searched for them for days to no avail. Returning once more to the watering hole, the figure of Quasicrimson appeared to her and instructed she head into the woodlands. There, he promised, she would find her family. After many days of traveling, she arrived at a small village. Taking disguise, she observed civilization for the very first time. She saw foreign kings act like despots, taxing the people into poverty and vilifying vassals in the process. Old temples and shrines laid in ruins, replaced with an ever- present imperial cult. Servants and serfs were worked to the bone, their bodies left to rot with no ceremony or remembrance. They merely worked day-in and day-out, living like machines, placated with bread and circuses. And the only force driving their lives was fear: fear of the law, fear of the king. Elders told her of a time long ago, when there was enough to eat and when the gods were plentiful in number and rewards. They quietly sang tales of great heroes which, if sung too loud, got them jailed. Foundling assumed a life of banditry, raiding the coffers of the nobles and giving them back to the locals. Welcomed by many and wanted by the law, she wandered from village to village assuming this lifestyle. A band of fellow do-gooding bandits formed around her. After some time, Foundling and her bandits raided a lord¡¯s castle, doing their usual routine. Much to her surprise, she found her aged adoptive father locked in the dungeon. He told her all about their enslavement, his attempts at freedom, how their numbers had been dwindling for years, and who was behind all this. She weeps as he takes his final breaths. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Rage, seething rage fills her body. She had a vengeance for the man responsible: the emperor.
From the dungeon¡¯s depths, say the poets, she was granted the divine eye of the rogue god. Prosaists say she instead plotted her revenge, sussing information out of those imprisoned. She liberates what remains of her clansfolk and, having overthrown the local king, installs a people¡¯s rule in its place. A few volunteers from the village emerge, joining their ranks. Together, their army traveled the four corners of the kingdom, learning the local languages and customs, liberating their minds and traditions. They wandered deep in the forests of the north, through the ruin-speckled deserts of the west, wading across the marshes and jungles of the south, and taming the plains of the center. Soldiers emerged from the lands they entered ¡ª some friendly, many foes, all either assimilated or vanquished. Word spread quickly of her hordes. To some she was the ¡°Madwoman of the Steppes¡±, to others ¡°the Great Liberator¡±, and to most ¡°all around just not a nice figure¡±. She was feared, revered, reviled. And as below, so above. Up in the heavens, Sakura¡¯s stronghold grip loosened. Local gods were now regaining powers they once lost. Fights broke out, alliances emerged. The world was once-more breathed into life; volcanoes erupted, the northern lights painted the sky, typhoons wreaked havoc on coastlines. The Lord of Lords tried stopping Quasicrimson in his tracks, but the efforts were futile. The god now had his own community, and grew stronger with each day. It wasn¡¯t just those below, but now the other gods that chanted his name. Sakura feared for his crown, for the world-order he fashioned. Down below, the hordes marched ¡®tward the Imperial Citadel. They left nothing but smolders in their path, a far cry from the good-hearted redistribution of their earlier days. Rows of horsemen and soldiers sieged the walls of the city and plundered its contents. Concealed in a secret compartment, the emperor fears for his life. He thinks back on his reign. It all started so well; things were nice and orderly, the people lived content lives. He saw chaos brewing, and tightened his grip. When he lost his wife and child, he was destroyed. Did he take it out on his kingdom? What ever happened to that child, he wonders? Did the witchy midwife steal it, or was it still alive out there, somewhere? And now his whole kingdom was collapsing from underneath him. The hordes embodied everything he loathed; rebellion, revolt, chaos, the revival of the old, irrational traditions, and the destruction of the righteous ones.
The door to his cell burst open. Soldiers kidnapped him and dragged him to the throne room, where Foundling stood waiting. He felt there was something... oddly familiar about her. She didn¡¯t want answers. She didn¡¯t want land or wealth or power. She just wanted him gone. Something finally clicks in his head. He utters a word, but it comes too late. A slice and a thud can be heard from the room. Meanwhile, in the courts of heaven, Sakura¡¯s throne is flooded by mobs of rowdy gods. He can¡¯t fight them off. He gets thrown off the throne and tossed to the world below. Quasicimson emerges from the crowd and holds Sakura¡¯s crown triumphantly. They cheer him on, expecting him to wear it and take on the mantle of Lord of Lords. Instead, the deity smashes the crown. He cackles and descends into the world. The other gods look at each other, confused.
Here lay the remains of her father. She stood there, shivering. The imprisoned midwife was called, and confirmed it. Even Quasicrimson told her when she asked. She spent the rest of the afternoon in deep thought. Family. It¡¯s a word most everyone knows. As she looked back, she noticed it was the one thing she strived to find, strived to rectify. And without knowing it, she destroyed her true family. An entire world left in smolders, all to destroy her only true parent. But... were the clansfolk that raised her not her family? They taught her to conquer all terrain, and gave her the skills to survive. Were the bandits she raided the rich with not her family? They taught her to lead, to learn from the people, and to work for the greater good. Was Quasicrimson not her family, providing her with strength and guidance every step of the way?
The birds in the trees, the animals who gave the skins she bore, the running streams and mountains and coastlines, the peoples she met and subjugated... were they all not her family? Had she treated all of them, truly, like family? It was at this point in time she realized the whole world, in one way or another, was her family. Now she had it in her hands. Perhaps it was time to treat it like family once and for all. Dreams of the Welkin World (Artwork: ¡°Val van Icarus¡± by anonymous, between 1675 and 1711, colorized by author) There¡¯s someone in the clouds. The boy had often seen shapes in the clouds as they passed by, fanciful forms that came and went at a moment¡¯s notice. He sometimes wondered if the clouds had lives of their own, like those of his parents tending to the fields below. This was different. Staring directly at him is a girl, one made of wisps and skystuff, but a girl nonetheless. A child just like him, somehow, riding a horse made of smoke. The boy had always been an inquisitive fellow, even before he could talk. Though he stands no higher than three feet, he doesn¡¯t let it stop him from climbing the local rock faces or swinging from treetops. From this plateau, one can see his parents working in the distance. They look like mere ants from here. He could see the whole world from here: the farmhouses of his neighbors, the lazy streams and winding canals, the flowers and wheatfields and orchards, even the distant marketplace. If one squints, one can spot a tower further ahead, filled with strange noises and even stranger people. Faint hints of gold can be seen on the midday horizon, seeming to curl upwards like a floor rug pushed against a wall. Breathtaking as it may be, the boy remains glued to the sky above. He sometimes wondered if the clouds had lives of their own. He didn¡¯t question it now. Her lightning eyes are all that remains in his head as an inaudible command draws the girl away, into a hidden world amongst the clouds. Thick layers of snow sit on the plateau. The boy, now a foot taller, runs out of the farmhouse as his parents scream for him. He heads into a toolshed and pulls out a rickety device, made of twigs, strings, and animal hides, together resembling bird¡¯s wings. Device in hand, he trudges through the snow and, with difficulty, climbs a tree. He straps the device to his arms and waits. The winter air bites at his nose and shakes his body - which is exactly what he¡¯d been waiting for. All the while, his parents yell at him to come down. Not too far off, a robed man with grey hair and a large forehead walks down the road, staff in one hand and bowl in another. The boy continues waiting. The wind grows stronger and stronger. It¡¯s time. In an instant, the boy lunges off the tree. He falls for a moment, before the wind billows the animal hides on his device and propels him forward. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Hovering a mere fifteen feet off the ground, the boy swiftly glides past his parents, past the farmhouse, and past the frostbitten fields. The sensation of flight is equal parts scary and exciting. If his teeth still chattered and his bones still shivered, he didn¡¯t notice, for the feeling of gliding is all that occupied his mind. It¡¯s an exhilarating experience - until he plummets as the wind dies down. He hurdles faster and faster towards the ground, flying by the robed man, before crashing face-first into a snowbank. Some time later, he wakes in the farmhouse, the robed man having tended to his wounds. He sees the man talking to his parents, pointing enthusiastically at diagrams and scribblings in the boy¡¯s notebooks. Big words like ¡®apprentice¡¯ and ¡®inventor¡¯ can be heard here and there, which the boy can¡¯t understand. His eyes land on the fireplace and its smooth embers. The wind only blows left and right, in-and-out. Humans naturally tend to fall. It seems only fire and smoke climb upward. The sun shines brightly on the tower of the Natural Philosophers¡¯ Guild, where strange folks reside and the constant clammer of caustic devices emanates. From one of its highest windows, the boy stares out into the distance. He¡¯s now five-and-a-half feet tall, a well-off apprentice, and much closer to man than boy. He¡¯s learned a lot during his time at the Guild. Useless things, mostly. How to dissect a flower, the names of the beasts, how the pangene works¡­ But, also, useful things. Tales of distant places and the wonders therein, the five elements and their crystal spheres, how to sell your strange and incredibly hazardous inventions in the marketplace¡­ Even so, our apprentice inventor still looks out into the distance with longing. The farmhouse and plateau look so small from here, as if they were another world entirely. Then, out in the clouds, a figure appears. It¡¯s that of a woman, a specter made of clouds and billows, with eyes like two charges of lightning. Those days climbing rock faces come flying back to him. He swears it¡¯s the same girl from before, having grown just like him. Later that day, the apprentice lumbers out of the tower-cum-workshop with a device strapped to his back. It¡¯s a distant descendant of the twiggy bird wings he fashioned so many winters ago, now reinforced with proper wood, light bits of metal, and paper wings. Now present is a metal box on his back, heavily concealed, with holes in the bottom. Inside sits a steel ball of water and an array of clockwork. The other inventors chase after our apprentice, pleading for him to stop. He pulls a match from his pocket (the latest invention from the merchant republics) and throws it into one of the holes. Inside, cogs and gears start turning. Bits of coal and saltpeter alight from inside the metal box. The water in the ball heats up. A chain reaction begins, growing louder and louder. The apprentice fears for his life as an explosion emits from the holes in the bottom, launching him dozens of feet upward. Within seconds, he¡¯s now flying among the clouds. Those down below scream or chant prayers. His mouth is agape as he sees his comrades shrink into the distance. It remains agape as he turns and sees entire villages hidden among the clouds. Children of wisp float around the clouds as their guardians tend to fireplaces of lightning. Billowy reapers can be seen harvesting rays of sunlight from the sky. Pools of liquid rainbow can be seen here and there. As he ascends, he starts to feel warmer and warmer. His senses return to him, and with a few obscure movements he slows his descent, calming the fires inside the box. He adjusts to the wind, and begins gliding through this welkin world. Down below, the robed man ascends the guild¡¯s tower and pulls out his simple brass telescope. Though nearly blind, he can make out the apprentice¡¯s figure in the heavens, gliding from cloud to cloud. He smiles. The Time-Worshippers
A Time-Worshipper wriggles his way across vacant sandstone streets. He¡¯s a squirm, a worn-like creature no longer than a span, clad in a monk¡¯s brown robe. Clouds of dust and unyielding heat are his only accomplices as he moves stoically, seriously, punctually. The entire Citadel is a skeleton. A very different story from just a decade ago ¡ª or, as they would put it, about 28 sextillion adi. Mere feet above, grand halls of stone and countless minerals lie vacant. Shelves of libraries have been cleared. Not even a scrap of paper or a half-empty flash drive has been left behind. Wormhole tubes have all been terminated. Shadows on walls and floors are all that remain of statues and artifacts since evacuated. Ornate stone frescoes glide by him, telling the story of this world. For millennia, the Time-Worshippers held this planet as their See, the seat of their faith. Many billions of years ago, the squirms first evolved on a planet much like this. The original has since faded with time, but the squirms and their monopoly on wormhole travel have remained. And some took their faith with them. As he enters a beaten plaza, he crosses paths with others. Some are dressed in black robes, the attire of the elders. They move in unison through the rotting wooden poles of the market stalls. All ilk of creature once pilgrimaged to this world. They flooded these common areas at ground level, where marketplaces turned some of the best profits in the galaxy and bishopric-cops regularly apprehended ne¡¯er-do-wells. All that remains are rotted wooden posts and dilapidated stone floors.
As they ascend a ramp, more monks begin filing in. One of them is a human. Despite being several times larger, the human manages to keep in step with the others. They walk past exuberant chambers where choirs, prayers, and public performances were held. Beside them stand the many rooms of the Academy, where physics, cosmology, and the ¡®pataphysics of time were taught. Not even gum under the side of a desk remains. Further up still, the oracles once sat in their isolate chambers, living out their eccentric lives of teaching and prognosticating. One such oracle, the last residing here, leaves his cell and joins the crowd. This squirm wears a white robe, a stark contrast from the clothes of his peers. Many oracles lived like mad scientists, scrambled writings and equations surrounding them on chalkboards, flanked by piles of books and papers. Others were more austere, opting instead on lighting a stick of incense and listening to the whir of the Chronometer. As the robed multitude finish their ascent up the stone fac?ade, they too listen to the Chronometer. Ninety-three of them line the terrace, mostly squirms, with two humans, two goatfolk, and an am?boid also present. The white-clad squirm stands foremost, seeming to lead the others on. The device sits just meters below. But its whirs grow fainter and fainter with each passing moment. What looks from the outside to be a massive sphere is, in fact, the universe¡¯s largest and most accurate clock. It counts adi - the time it takes for electrons to cloud around a newly birthed atom. About 105 quadrillion of these pass in one second. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. In its center sits a chamber whose counting mechanisms are known only to a dozen or so people. Pilgrims and tourists would come to see the other 146 rings of this celestial clock as they count out every other corresponding unit of time ¡ª ranging from atom collisions to the current age of the universe. The monks are reminded of those swinging spheres as they see the sky beyond. They trace the slow movements of the other celestial bodies, counting the very seconds, nanoseconds, even adi to the moment. Rigorous training make them constantly aware of the passage of time. It¡¯s not just a causal thing, after all; it¡¯s a religious obligation. Some train to bring order into people¡¯s lives, including their own. Many train to better their work as astrophysicists, engineers, and technicians.
Their trainings also give them a glimpse into the future. Be it through endless calculations or ¡®mystical insights,¡¯ they strive to predict the predictable to the exact moment. It also makes them aware, bitter-sweetly, that everything must come to an end. The Time-Worshippers knew for quite some time the Citadel would need to move elsewhere. It happened half a dozen times before, and it will happen again. Centuries of politics and attempted schisms eventually ended with another site being found ¡ª a young, lush planet with rain forests, rolling plains, and coarse but plentiful mountains. Within a decade, the clergy migrated, the pilgrims followed, and a new Citadel with its own, soon-to-be-unrivaled Chronometer was constructed. Some, of the many millions of Time-Worshipping clergy, chose to stay behind. They couldn¡¯t let their spiritual home go out alone. The torch may have passed, but the old keepers still remain. As the suns inch closer together, the white-robed squirm in the center begins a rhythmic chant. The rest are soon to follow. Uncountably large adi pass. They¡¯re reminded of all the history this Citadel holds. The first human convert, marked proudly by a human handprint near the Citadel¡¯s gates... several attacks from outsiders and heretics... the signing of several treaties, ensuring Pax Galacticas that lasted for centuries... A few lesser clergy begin crying. Their superiors console them. Stoic as ever, the white-robed oracle continues keeping time and rhythm, focused one-pointedly on the Chronometer. The stars spiral closer and closer together. The heat radiating is immense. Chunks of previously absorbed planets prepare to blast back to whence they came. The chanting, too, increases in intensity. The oracle, as do many of the monks, seems to enter an otherworldly trance. They all feel a connection to those that came before. Not an emotional one, but a physical one. It¡¯s not at all possible, and yet, they can see and feel every other that has done the same as them. The ¡®Chant of the End,¡¯ as it is known, evokes images to all those present. They see those reciting it by the deathbeds of beloved relatives. They hear it in the anguished cries of those dying in foxholes and in the prayers of those on death row. They feel it in the ritual dances of wakes and weddings. The whirring slows down further and further...
Seemingly, the world expands around them, warping to reveal the forms of all the others that have chanted in this manner. They see their forefathers chant it as Citadels of the past vanished to wars, solar engulfment, and nuclear winter, among others ¡ª a scene stretching all the way back to the legendary death of their Founder, Eulhard. A wave of plasma bursts forth from the colliding stars. The chanting finally comes to an end. The ninety-seven monks stand in meditative silence, awaiting their fates. The Chronometer counts its last freshly minted adi. The Tale of Theoxenia Trismegistus Satyrs are an illusive breed of goat-like men living deep in the forests of Greece, hidden from civilization for centuries. Staying concealed lets them practice their hedonistic way of life unbothered, playing music, drinking heavily, and engaging in carnal desires that would cause a Puritan to faint. They live lecherously not out of spite or a need to rebel, but because they hold one maxim above all else: be true to one¡¯s self. Unlike their plain-dwelling counterparts, they still practice the rites of the old gods in their close-knit tribes. Their rampant hedonism is broken up by days of collective celebration, drunken meditation, and a chance to fill the desires of the soul. Animals are hunted, a feast of meat is held, ancient rites are chanted, and an all-night bacchanalia is hosted to let loose one¡¯s self and live like the animal. And to Dionysus these rites are dedicated, the destroyer of binaries, the one who enjoins us to enjoy life, not merely let it pass by. As deforestation spreads across Greece, the satyrs move periodically to stay concealed. One such group are the Trismegistus clan, who have moved several times this decade alone. By shunning the outside world, aside from periodic raids to maintain numbers, they have managed to avoid the slaughter and assimilation others of their kin have faced.
Theoxenia, called ¡°Theo¡± for short, doesn¡¯t fit the mold of his satyr brethren. He¡¯s not a fan of heavy drinking or the hangovers that come afterwards. Chasing tail (of both sexes) doesn¡¯t entice him either. Of the satyr past-times, he instead lives for music. He was quick to learn the songs of the lyre and the epics and chants of his clan. He even sings songs of his own. But even though he can lead festivals and inspire awe, he finds himself something of an outsider. When everyone enters a drunken slumber, he¡¯s cleaning up the mess. Outside of a festival, he¡¯s more a nuisance than anything else. He¡¯s also something of a sentimentalist. Every now and again, Theo journeys through the forests to find the remains of his birthplace, which they left behind a generation ago. It used to be a heavily wooded thicket; this afternoon, it¡¯s merely a few trees in a clearing. One tree, the oldest of them all, bears his name carved into the side: ¡°¡±. Theo reclines on the tree of his birth and takes in his surroundings. He enjoys the placid calm of the clearing, even if all that remains of his childhood is the tree. It¡¯s sunset now, and Theo closes his eyes as if to nap. Then, four strange notes can be heard in the distance. Theo wakes up. They¡¯re unlike anything else he¡¯s ever heard. It¡¯s as if a lyre made of pure metal was being played, devoid of echo but booming and unusually twangy. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he emerges from the tree to investigate. He slinks from tree to tree until he finds it source. It¡¯s a strange box with a picture on it, showing several dozen men standing behind a row of foreign text written in flowers. As he moves closer and closer, voices in an equally foreign tongue emerge, with a strangely Orphic quality to them. More strange, yet alluring, sounds accompany the twanging, giving way to something ¡°muted¡± but of a similar metallic quality. He inches closer and closer to the small box, only for a hand to apprehend it. He was so entranced by the box, he failed to notice the person next to it. Theo backs off quickly, hoping to avoid being noticed. The figure picks up the box and stabs it repeatedly with its fingers. It¡¯s a human, the first Theo has ever laid eyes on. He was surprised at how much it looked like him. He always imagined humans as these monstrous, Herculean creatures with bulging chests, hair flowing like an endless river, and turgid muscles that could snap him like a twig. Instead, this human was slender and fragile. It seemed to be missing Theo¡¯s fur-covered goat legs, but perhaps they¡¯re hiding under that strange ¡°long blue close-leg tunic¡±. It also lacked little horns, though it did have Theo¡¯s same curly hair. The human continues absentmindedly stabbing the box. Theo can catch glimmers of it and see the picture change with each stab. That night, as Theo returns to the clan and readies for sleep, the strange music still reverberates in his head. He tries to replicate the sound on his lyre, but cannot quite get the metallic ¡°twang¡± that pierces his mind. It instead becomes a composition all his own, accompanied with his own mangled lyrics trying to mimic those of the song.
Daily thereafter, he wanders back to the clearing and watches. He watches people go by every now and then. More importantly, he listens. He keeps a ready ear out to find that song again. His study of the humans is as fascinating as it is confusing. They come in all shapes and sizes, even like his slightly paunchy self, but also in both sexes and occasionally something he can¡¯t quite put a finger on. They all wear clothes of sorts he¡¯s not familiar with. His grass skirt is derided as ¡°overly modest¡± by his clanmates, and the only other clothes he¡¯s worn are simple white robes used in rituals. He watches an elderly farmer tend to a field of cabbages (one he used to rummage through as a kid) and angrily bat away rabbits and less-cunning critters. Much to his surprise, the farmer then collects the vegetables, takes them to a distant place, and returns with strange, square-shaped colored leaves. Farming wasn¡¯t a wholly foreign concept to him. Satyrs grow their own grapes for wine in small plots, cultivating herbs and brassicas of their own as well. He just wondered where the farmer went ¡ª and why would he exchange cabbages for colored leaves? Collecting a mix of fabrics, leaves, furs, and other spare materials, Theo cobbles together a shirt of sorts. He watches the farmer, dons the alleged shirt, and follows him quietly, leaping from thicket to thicket. The two arrive in a ¡°laiki agora,¡± a Greek farmer¡¯s market. The farmer enters a stall surrounded by dozens of others, selling all manner of veg in a volume Theo has only seen in dreams. His animal instincts tell him to gobble them up until he heaves, but his fascination with the array of things around him drowns out those urges. He sees an old woman with jars of honey. She talks to someone, then hands them a jar and receives those leaves in return. The woman must be very strong, he thinks, since the last time he tried to get honey all he came back with was a wealth of bee stings. Another stall has someone exchanging multicolored bars for the same leaves. The bars smell sweet and look like they¡¯re made of animal fat. Other stalls hold various things Theo doesn¡¯t quite recognize. What he does see, and begins to understand, are the workings of a currency-based economy. He knows things can be exchanged for the colored leaves, and the leaves can be exchanged again for other things. He swears he sees that human he saw by the tree, just for a moment, walking through the crowds. He gets an idea.
The next morning, Theo arrives at the market with his lyre and begins strumming. There¡¯s an old tin can in front of him, empty, which holds tips he collects from passers-by. Every day he arrives in the market¡¯s streets and plays his archaic tunes, slowly collecting coins and colored leaves. He begins to pick up the local language. Greek, as it turns out, hasn¡¯t changed much since antiquity, but the way they say words and their meanings have. The same goes for the dialect of the satyrs. Over the course of weeks, he¡¯s learned enough of the double meanings and sound changes to communicate, albeit with a strange satyric accent. He learns to ¡°spend¡± the colored leaves (finding their taste quite bitter), usually on brassicas and other assorted vegetables. When his alleged shirt is torn beyond repair, he buys a new one from a local weaver. All in all, he becomes something of a local staple at the agora, a funny fellow with a cheerful face, a song to sing, a goatish stench, and stories to tell from Greece¡¯s mythic past.
At the same time, Theo has grown further and further alienated from his Trismegistus brethren. They didn¡¯t take fondly to him shaving his horns or wearing strange clothes. Satyrs wander, but very rarely return smelling of roses and perfumed soaps. And then there¡¯s all this strange talk of ¡°money¡± and ¡°technology¡± and ¡°the European Union.¡± All concepts none of them knew or desired to know. They merely tolerated Theo, knowing he could still play old tunes well (alongside strange new ones) and attend festivals like everyone else.
On a Sunday morning, Theo sits alone in the market at sunrise. The rest of the satyrs remain asleep until noon. Shopkeeps, on the other hand, come this early to the agora the other six days of the week. Why was this one day any different? The curly-haired fellow from before walks through the agora, seemingly in a hurry. Theo waves, and the fellow reciprocates. He follows them, lyre in hand, and tries to start a conversation, but finds the other constantly out of reach. As the suns finishes rising, the two arrive at a humbly-sized white stone building. Inside sit the townsfolk in crowded benches. Theo is taken aback by the lavish gold adorned all around the walls. Iconography of human faces of a seemingly otherworldly quality are everywhere, alongside paintings of scenes that tell full stories without words. Colors and sounds lay siege on his mind, which surrenders and gives way to pure awe and wonder. At the center of it all stands a man in an ornate white robe and a portrait of a bearded figure with a golden halo around his head. In a weird way, the man¡¯s robes remind him of his own white robes he wears during Dionysian rituals. The thought crosses his mind that the portrait is that of a ¡°bearded Dionysus.¡± He feels a bizarrely familiar, yet some how unique, presence from the multitudinous icons. Stolen novel; please report. It¡¯s strangely comforting. He sits next to the fellow in the pew and joins the liturgy.
After the service, Theo befriends the curly-headed fellow. He learns its name is ¡°Alex¡±, and that it is a ¡°he.¡± Theo had wondered for the longest time which side of the gender binary Alex stood on. Much like Dionysus, Alex prefers to straddle that line. His is a masculinity not of beards and hairy, bare-chested brutes like those of the satyrs, but a masculinity of restraint, strength, and wit. A masculinity that gives way for the warmth and compassion of one¡¯s feminine side. A personality that would¡¯ve had him killed in the woods, but could grow into a great king or advisor. The two share a love in music. Alex guides Theo to a special place in a town half a day away. It was an all-day agora of sorts. Theo wondered if this is what the streets of Athens or Delphi looked like so many years ago, full of life and business and magical lights seemingly removed from torches. They enter a building full of wooden crates, each one holding square panels with all kinds of drawing on them. More drawings can be seen on the walls, and strangely musical noises can be heard from metal devices scattered here and there. Strange instruments hang on the wall, looking like animal skeletons of wood and bronze to Theo¡¯s untrained eye. To a modern viewer, we call this a ¡°music store,¡± but to Theo, it was nothing short of Elysium. Alex introduces Theo to his other friends here, each of varying personalities and tastes. They are also musicians. Theo learns about these instruments displayed on walls and shelves: flutes of wood and brass, lyres of varying shapes and sounds, even boxes fueled by ¡°amber magic¡± that create tones like those from the jowls of Cerebus. He learns about all new styles of music from Greece and beyond. He especially likes music from a mystical land in the north, where it always rains, kings and democracy rule side-by-side, and people ride in tall red chariots lead by hidden horses. There it is. That same picture from before, the one with the few dozen gents and the flowerbed. It¡¯s so much larger now, and all the faces can be made out on it. Theo grabs the record and rushes over to the cashier, tossing them all his colored leaves. Theo asks for Alex¡¯s small box and repeatedly rams it into the side of the LP. He keeps looking at the box, but its face doesn¡¯t change to match that of the record, no matter how hard he tries. Alex gently removes both from Theo¡¯s hands and takes him into a booth. Minutes later, the two of them are listening to the album, sharing a pair of headphones. A cacophony (or is it a euphany?) of voices and entirely new sounds emerges, equally confusing and amazing. The third track comes on, and Theo melts with joy. From that moment on, Theo had what we would call a ¡°best friend.¡±
Theo spent more and more time with Alex and his friends. Assimilating into the group wasn¡¯t as easy as he expected, though. He may wear human clothes and walk through shopping malls like the rest of them, but he was still raised a satyr. Thousands of years of isolation and staunch tradition makes adapting difficult. For instance, his manners are atrocious. Satyrs eat loudly, heartily, and messily, and tend to pick from each other¡¯s plates. Taking Theo to fancy restaurants was out of the question, lest their party receive glares that could kill a small country. Living as ¡°one¡¯s true self¡± means speaking one¡¯s mind and living on impulse, say the satyrs. So Theo always spoke his mind and spoke honestly. If someone annoyed him, he¡¯d yell for them to quiet down. A few near-death experiences taught him some restraint with time. He¡¯d rummage through the garbage for goodies ¡ª after all, why let it ¡°go to waste¡±? With time, and enough scolding from Alex¡¯s friends, Theo began to learn the unspoken laws of society. But Alex¡¯s friends¡¯ patience began to draw thinner and thinner with time. At first, they thought Theo was funny. Eventually he just became annoying. His crazy skill with music was the only reason they still hung out ¡ª and even then, they decided he was best in small doses. Alex still remained close with Theo through it all. He couldn¡¯t give a reason why. He just saw something unique in this lad. He could forgive the barnyard stench and lack of manners ¡ª he helped Theo rectify both. Maybe he liked his strange perspective on life. All the pomp and stance of daily life didn¡¯t exist in his world.
One day, Alex decides to play the game of exchanging secrets with Theo. Theo had an understanding of secrets and lies at this point. He found both of them stupid. He¡¯d discovered most of human culture was built on one or the other. Folks would throw away themselves and live webs of lies just for silly things like colored leaves or social acceptance. Well, he¡¯d been understanding the latter more and more with time. He¡¯d never held any secrets in his life until recently. The satyrs began questioning his whereabouts. Elders began giving him the same thermonuclear glares he¡¯d seen from resterauteers. They¡¯d met humans in the past, and there was a reason they lived as far from them as possible. Now that he thought about it, he¡¯d started picking up some of those bad human habits, too. He¡¯d ignore uncomfortable questions, feigning a deaf ear. He¡¯d be overly polite to worm his way out of interrogations. He¡¯d overcompensate with his strumming at festivals and hide from others once they were over. He¡¯d also been keeping his satyric heritage from his friends. At first, it was just na?vet¨¦. But he soon figured out that outing himself might not be the best idea. He turns to look Alex in the eyes. Theo tells Alex his secret. He shows him his fur-covered legs, and parts his locks to show the stubs of shaved horns. Alex stands back in silence. He tries to hide his confusion and alarm, but his face betrays him. It all seemed to make sense now ¡ª the funny accent, the complete disregard for manners, the constant quotations of Greek fables¡­ How could he have been so blind? He was friends with a freak, an anomaly, a creature banished to the pages of myth. Then he thought for a minute. Theo was his friend. Theo is his friend. Satyr or not, he was the closest with Theo that he had ever been with anyone. And it was the same in reverse. Alex takes it all in and puts his hand on Theo¡¯s shoulder. It turns into a hug.
Theo never really got around to understanding the first bits of the Bible. He saw it as a bunch of heroic stories buried within dozens and dozens of laws. But he did resonate with the heroes and their vindication by ¡°God¡±, with a capital ¡°G.¡± He never really got the concept of ¡°God¡± with a capital ¡°G¡± (or, as it were, god in singular instead of plural). It just didn¡¯t quite make sense to him that such a multifaceted world could be made and controlled by the same person. How can ¡°God¡± be in the lovingkindness of a mother and also in the raging storms of the mediterranean? Instead, he imagined his own pagan figures taking on ¡°God¡±¡¯s role at different times. Genesis was about Phanes, Progenitor of the Gods, and his creation of the world from nothingness. Most of the Old Testament was ruled over by the tempers of Zeus or Ares, or occasionally Dionysus himself. But then he wondered why any of these figures would mandate such stringent rules that they themselves didn¡¯t follow. Was the ¡°God of Israel¡± some other member of the Olympiad lost to time? Was he a chntonic god of that foreign land? Did he have anything to do with that Set fellow from Egypt? Theo¡¯s heard rumors about him¡­ Whereas Theo found the Old Testament confusing, he liked the New Testament. He especially liked Jesus and his message of peace and love, a kind of love that was human in presentation and divine in source. Gods becoming human was nothing new to him, but he found Jesus¡¯ message and action more relatable, in a way. He acted like the other gods, in that he had emotions and powers, and yet not like the others, in that his maxim was forgiveness and not individual sovereignty. When he got mad, it was to prove a point, not for a personal goal. Hospitality and humility were virtues the Hellenists cherished, and Jesus embodied both. But, again, there¡¯s that whole ¡°one God¡± clause. The priest kept calling these figures ¡°daimonas,¡± as if it was a bad thing. To the Greek Christian, ¡°demons¡± are evil spirits; but to the Greeks who invented the word, ¡°daimons¡± are helpful guiding spirits. So Theo failed to see it as an insult to his gods. An honest mistake, perhaps, but not an insult. But as the priest¡¯s patience grows thinner and thinner, his ¡°self¡± overcoming his modesty, Theo soon understood something wasn¡¯t quite clicking. It was ¡°one God¡± or ¡°many,¡± not both. Despite all this, he could not help but still see the gods in the rest of creation. It was strange. He could feel the love of the Christ in the Eucharist and the community, yet could feel that primal bliss of Dionysus in the communion wine and the deepest moments of prayer. He saw no problem with praying to both Jesus and Dionysus. Could the two not be brothers? The priests didn¡¯t think so, neither Satyric nor Christian. And yet¡­ Theo did.
The night of the big event had come. Theo and the other musicians made their way to the stage. A crowd waits below, cheering them on. It looks like the whole town is here, and plenty of folks from elsewhere have come too. He can see Alex near the front. Their eyes meet. Theo smiles and feels all giddy inside. Little did he know, his folks from the forest were waiting in the shadows. They had followed him. A dark plan was soon to be set in motion, Theo and the rest none the wiser. Theo and his band begin to play. Months of practice begins to pay off as the crowd applauds. The sounds of electric guitar, drums, and lyre bounce off the stage, reverberating into the forest and plains.Theo feels alive. Then, screams emerge. Theo stops to see his drunken clanmates ravaging the crowd, destroying the scenery, disturbing the concert and its attendees. They get rowdy. They get lecherous. They get violent. Within minutes, police arrive. Bawdy taunting and assault turns into human-oriented hate, and fights break out. Gunshots and screams are heard, as the blood of satyrs and humans mingles in the grass. Attendees flee in droves. The satyrs that don¡¯t die manage to flee into the woods, all of them wounded to a near-fatal degree. Theo watches the whole thing unfold, petrified. He doesn¡¯t know what to do. He hears a familiar voice, and sees Alex crying for help in the distance. Theo screams in horror, and runs to his friend, tossing his lyre behind him with such great force that it smashes in two. He rushes over to Alex with tears pouring down his face. Alex apparently tried fleeing when the fighting broke out, but someone stabbed him in the legs half-way through. Theo lies there and holds Alex in his arms, muttering incoherently. He places his head on Alex¡¯s chest, and whimpers as his heartbeat slows.
Theo sits under his tree once more, alone. His wide, emotionless eyes tell the world he¡¯s the most sober satyr who has ever lived. The events from that night still haunt him as he sits, staring off into space. He no longer wears his daywalker clothes. Just his old grass skirt from so many moons ago. He doesn¡¯t know where to go. He renounces his satyr heritage and the clan he one called home. But he knows he¡¯s a satyr, and he can¡¯t go on living in this town after what happened. And he knows the humans have their own flaws and vices. Monsters reside in all of us, he figures. You don¡¯t need to have goat¡¯s horns or a gun to be one. Silence abounds. It¡¯s deafening. Wind blows through the trees. Theo sits, still lost in melancholy. Then, a blur emerges from the corner of his eye. It moves closer towards him. He turns his head to see. Could it be? The blur moves into view. It¡¯s a limping figure, wearing casual clothes, dragging something behind it. It has Theo¡¯s curly hair. It is! Theo rushes over to Alex and hugs him, stopping him mid-limp. Theo quietly cries tears of joy. The two huddle their way over to Theo¡¯s tree, which has both their names carved into its side. Alex gives Theo his lyre back, expertly repaired. They spend the afternoon talking, enjoying each other¡¯s presence, periodically laughing and crying and overall ecstatic the other is still alive. It¡¯s a wonderful feeling next to nothing else in this world can encapsulate, a feeling almost divine in and of itself. They spend time talking about their future. Theo is still wracked with guilt, and may never show his face in town again. He talks about moving to that land over the sea, the one where the king and the democracy rule side-by-side and where the good music comes from. Alex tells him he needs to move on eventually. And that he¡¯ll be there, every step of the way. Theo smiles at Alex. A tear parts from his eye. They hug once more. A thought crosses Theo¡¯s mind: In the deepest, darkest nights of our lives, nothing is a better lamp than a close friend. The two watch the sunset. Theo plays that song he once heard so very long ago on his lyre. Perhaps, in an odd way, Jesus and Dionysus were brothers after all.