TheLongWalk[Continued from In the Dragons Belly] Gillian found herself standing over a void – a translucent pathway stretching before her. Purple-white lightning flickered below her, dancing through an endless star-scape of worlds. And each world contained countless moments in time and possibility, spawning more with each flash. Again and again. And, as each was created, others dissolved or merged. Creation and Destruction. Over and over. Ginger gripped tighter, “Well, that’s not something you see every day.” "My God...it's full of stars..." Gillian choked out. "It's beautiful." Ahead of her, the lightning outlined shapes – indistinct at first, but the more Gillian paid attention the more Real they became. The Jewel warmed against her skin. Gillian took a deep breath and squinted, trying to make out the shapes. The more she focused, the more defined they became. She could see her father’s face – stern and disappointed. Her mother – sad and broken. And Jonathan – his face drawn and vacant. Their skin shone like ice. This was Not. Going. To be. Pleasant. And that was likely the understatement of her short life. What did the Griffin ask her? "Are you willing to accept the cost?" Damn him for being so precognitive, anyway. He also said something about "eternal suffering," which Gillian did not like the sound of at all. Was there a way she could ditch this responsibility? She looked away from her family spectres, back toward the beautiful, hypnotic void. One step and she would just fall into it. Sweet oblivion... Gillian closed her eyes before she did just that. "In for a penny, in for a pound, my Mum always said. Cybele, what's the plan here? To keep in mind your past memory of how the Jewel and Pattern were as we walk the current one? Will that overwrite it?" <Walk forward. It's the Pattern. Pause here and die. Move forward. The Correspondence between the two will come naturally, connecting them. Pattern and Jewel. Jewel and Pattern. They will reunite as we proceed toward the center.> The Other said. <Once we reach the Second Veil, summon Temperance, and accept its Pact. We can use its Power to cleanse the taint here. Then finishing the Pattern Walk will complete the Binding.> Cybele paused. <If it doesn’t kill us first.> Ginger sighed. “Always with the good news.” Gillian's eyes filled with sudden tears. She looked down past the glowing red Jewel to her feet, perilously close to the glowing, translucent path. One step and she'd be eternally committed. One step. The Jewel flared. She stepped forward. Balefire sparks flared beneath Gillian’s feet – their heat radiating through her shoes. Ginger gave a disconcerted mew, clenching her claws into Gillian’s clothing. “Oh. Oh that’s not good,” she muttered. Her body shivered, then trembled, as if suffering fro great exertion. Indeed, Gillian felt like she was walking into a desert wind; every inch of her body feeling its intensifying resistance. Her skin parched and tightened like drying leather, heating with each step forward. And a growing weight pressed down on her feet, forcing her to lift her legs and plant them down hard. But progress was made. Little by little. She made a turn in the Pattern’s winding pathway, drawing closer to her Father’s phantom outline. Its silvered teeth clenched with disapproval – spiteful eyes flaring like stars. He began pacing toward her, moving easily through the midnight void. He drew out his leather belt, its snake hiss reaching Gillian’s ears. Then she felt the nagging, needling intrusion of a Trump contact – urgent and powerful. <Cybele! I can't answer that, can I? No pausing! Will he hit me with his belt? No pausing! I don't think I can do this! Help!> <You may not have a choice, if they persist. Holding it off will require mental fortitude. And the Pattern will only drain you more with each step.> Cybele leant Gillian some of her mental strength to hold off the Trump contact. <Damn it furball, do something!> Ginger mewed and tightened her grip. Gillian felt the Trump contact ease, becoming a dull throb between her eyes. “Gillian,” her Father sighed – hoarfrost coloring his lips. “You still think you’re better than all of us? Of your mother and I? Didn’t we give you a proper life? A good life? And you still turned your back on us? Your family. Your books and spells are more important than us, hrm?” "'Why couldn't it have been you?' You asked that of me the night Jonathan... YOU NEVER LOVED ME," Gillian shot back between gritted teeth. Her Father snorted. “And why should I love an ungrateful child like you?” His hand flicked and the metal buckle of his belt bit her wrist like a cobra – icy pain blinding her. “Not high and mighty enough, I think. Maybe a good fashion beating will take that arrogance out of you.” Gillian unleashed her repressed anger upon the spectre of her father. "I'm. Trying. To save. The world. Busy. GO AWAY!" Gillian felt her body flare with heat – her anger manifesting into magick. Flames licked her skin and face, and then leapt forward, surrounding her father. He howled and lashed out again and again, the metal buckle digging into her flesh. Gillian was too focused on hating her father to care. But Father began to melt away, his essence draining away like an icicle. Steam strung Gillian’s eyes, slowing her down. But only slowing. She continued forward through the cloud and passed the spectre’s remnants. She made the next turn, as her Mother inched, shuffled closer – crying silently. Seeing her mother crying (again) didn't make Gillian sad, it just made her more weary. Why didn't her mother ever stand up for herself? She always did everything Father told her to do. Even if that meant being unfair to her only daughter. Ginger mewed in pain. “I can’t hold it off any longer.” The Trump contact began bleeding through again – making Gillian’s head pound. "Arrrgh!" Gillian cried out, her mother forgotten for the moment. "I can't ignore it and walk anymore. I'm going to answer it." Gillian let go of her control and opened herself to the call. Within her mind’s eye, Gillian could smell rich loam and sensual incense. A feminine figure appeared, outlined by silvery torchlight. Raina smiled – golden eyes flickering with feral wildness. “Ah-ha, I see my gambit worked. Excellent." Gillian had just enough brainspace left to register surprise. It was Cwnwyd who'd given her the Jewel, not Rusalka. Or did Raina know that? “I’ll make this short, Gillian. Where you tread, you may need this to be successful.” She opened her palm to reveal a human eye resting there; a scarlet sheen reflecting on its surface. Almost immediately, the Jewel warmed against her skin, glowing. And the eye glowed, in kind. “Even dreams hold power.” <The bloody bitch> Cybele hissed. <That’s another Jewel. A pure one.> As the conversation continued, Gillian moved forward… and closer to her Mother’s open arms. I am not a child anymore. I don't need my mother. She reached for the Jewel in Raina's hand. The Jewel slipped into her fingers. It felt different; not hard as she’d expected, but warm and insubstantial, as if shaped from gossamer. “Even dreams hold power,” Raina repeated, serious, almost stern. “Now go and make use of Grandfather’s gift.” The Trump contact flickered out, freeing Gillian’s thoughts. She barely had the time to react before her Mother wrapped her arms around her, lovingly, gently. Her skin burned with the chill, the cold sinking into her like acid. It numbed her limbs and thoughts, slowing her down. Then grotesquely, her Mother’s flesh bonded to her, spreading like a disease. Gillian could feel her body bloating, aging, moldering… reshaping itself to conform to this invasion. Gillian gasped. Instinctively she reached out to her familiar, remembering the feel of her bones and flesh melting and flowing like tallow into Ginger-shape. <Ginger, help!> Ginger hissed and spit, sinking her claws into Gillian’s moldering flesh. Blistering pain caused her to stumble on the Pattern. Its numbing embrace fought to pull her down – down into nothingness, oblivion. The nothingness called to her seductively – promising no more suffering, no more struggles. Ginger’s claws sank deeper, cutting, slicing – opening Gillian’s chest like a zipper. Hideously, she watched as the cat crawled inside the wound; the pain beyond anything she could have dreamt possible. But almost as quickly, the pain became warmth – a heady wash of sensations and smells pushing back the discomfort. It gave her the strength to struggle farther on, dragging herself inch by inch. Then, like a snake shedding its old skin, Gillian felt her heavy, aging body loosen and fall away. The invasive chill of her Mother’s spirit fell away with it. With a burst of energy, she leapt forward and landed on nimble, feline paws – feeling reborn, liberated. Behind her, the hollow skin her Mother had taken over collapsed onto the Pattern’s surface, bubbling and spitting like rancid grease on a fire. She adapted well to this feline shape. It felt right. It felt – pure. Her perfect tail and exquisite whiskers were something to be marveled at. Dotted upon. Cherished. It felt like coming. . . home. The absence of weight and chill lifted Gillian's spirit tremendously. Hope burbled up in her chest and out with a throaty yowl, her tail stretching straight above her. <We might actually do this!> Then suddenly, <Where are the Jewels?> As if hearing her questions, Gillian’s eyes flared inside her skull – twin suns of Shadow and Light. She could see. . . everything. What was. What had been. What would be. All at once. Possibilities splitting and fracturing and creating new futures. And endings – entire worlds snuffed out. Possibilities and realities infinite and ever-expanding like some psychotic spiderweb. Far too much information for a human mind to comprehend. At least, not all at once. She struggled to focus her vision, narrowing it to her immediate surroundings. <Look!> she called out to Ginger and Cybele. <We can see everything! We can KNOW EVERYTHING!> And then, most unladylike: <SUCK ON THIS, FIONA!> Cybele sighed. <Focus O’Omnipotent One.> Unlike before, the multifaceted Pattern appeared almost static – its four dimensions little more than a straight line. Then again, unlike before, Gillian wasn’t looking at it through the Jewels of Judgment. They’d replaced her eyes. When that realization hit, Gillian almost faltered. <What is happening to me?> A sharp fear that she was losing herself threatened to overwhelm her, that the Gillian she knew was slipping away. <What will Seabhac...?> She squelched the thought before it was complete. Seabhac was dead--it didn't matter what he would think. At least having the Jewels for eyes made it clear where to step. All that remained was to find the strength, having four feet now to move rather than two. She bent her will to extending her front paw forward. The Pattern sparked and burned around her paws. But, unlike before, the cold fire now warmed her. Soothed her. She felt perfectly content as she padded forward. And with each step, the burden eased, the weight lessened. Creation unfolded before her, the Veils parting like silk. Her brother shimmered and faded; the obstacle he presented no longer a concern for one who had become part of the Pattern itself. Gillian felt a slight chill. . . but little more. Not long after, the swirling eddies of time and space grew still – as if she’d entered the eye of a hurricane. Peaceful. Silent. Perfect. Almost. She sensed the echo of corruption here. A fragment of bitterness and blood. She’d reached the Pattern’s wounded heart. Gillian sat delicately on her haunches and pictured the Temperance trump in her mind's eye: the beautiful, majestic human and the two cups she--he?--held, starry water passing from one to the other. The Pattern began to solidify beneath her paws, her unconscious thoughts shaping its appearance. She found herself standing on a cliff of petrified stone; a vast sky stretching out before her, filled with white-blue lightning and grey storm clouds. Her tapered ears twitched, catching the sound of large wings in flight. From the churning storms below, a mass of geometric shapes rose up to greet her – all light and beauty and silver. They coalesced into an angel of indeterminate gender, perfect in every regard. Silvered hair flowed over its androgynous body like mist. Sky-blue eyes met hers, a humble smile curling up its saintly lips. When Temperance spoke, the voice did not match the movement of its mouth – the sound in Gillian’s ears and thoughts alike. “You called. And I came. You desire a Pact. Name it. And pay the Cost.” Gillian's whiskers twitched. "You are a reflection of Harmony and Perfect Balance," she proclaimed, using Cybele's earlier words."I desire you to protect and empower me as I heal Amber's Primal Pattern. "What is your Cost?" Its loving eyes shone with gentle, perfect light. “You will live to fulfill your full Potential. Swear it, Gillian Talbot. And I shall lend you my strength in this task.” It extended pale, delicate hands to her. “Swear it,” Temperance repeated. And Gillian recognized the Power lurking behind that Pact – something that would define her from that moment forward. Gillian hesitated. Fulfill her own potential, but in a good way, she reasoned, because that's what she had always wanted for herself. Just like turning into a cat and having ancient relics for eyes had made walking the Pattern cake, this would be a good thing, a positive thing. Professor Hobbs would approve. So would Lord Feldane. So then why was she hesitating? "I swear it," Gillian said. Temperance nodded judiciously. “Very well,” it said. “The Pact is made Destroyer.” "Wh-what? Wait. Destroyer?" <Cybele?> <Do I look like I have all the answers to you?> the Elder retorted. <But you’ve sworn to her. There will be a cost. There always is.> It extended both hands, palms out, as if in supplication. Gillian felt a soft tug behind her skull, and then raw pain exploded in her eyes. A wet ripping noise flooded her ears, encompassed her very being. Then the pain ended… leaving her hollow and banal. It was as if she’d been cast down from heaven into the prison of a mortal shell. The pain-rich darkness faded, allowing her to see Temperance towering over her – two bloody eyes on its hands. It clenched its fists – ablaze of light ignited within them. The Pattern trembled beneath Gillian’s feet, threatening to throw her into the void. Gillian extended her claws and dug in. Anger coursed through her as she stared at what was rightfully hers and was now in Temperance's hands. <Cybele, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?> <Wait for her to finish.> Cybele chided. <And hold on.> The Pattern buckled and kicked, writhing beneath Gillian’s paws like a frenzied anaconda. Gravity and physics no longer held sway here. Angles changed and swallowed one another. Directions shifted and twisted until vertigo knotted her belly. Time and perception tore apart – forcing her to suffer through frozen moments and brief eternities. Shadows died. Worlds were born. A million possibilities altering before her, beneath her, above her, within her. And then, after untold lives, Gillian felt the world right itself. Temperance extended its hand, the twin jewels now one – encased in a silver claw at the end of a moonlit chain. It placed the chain around Gillian’s neck. “Complete your Journey, Destroyer. And the Pattern shall be healed.” Gillian sat down again, the Jewel glowing redly against her chest. She swished her tail back and forth. <What now, Cybele? Gaze into the depths of the Jewel, traverse the Pattern inside, and so as it is inside, so it will be manifested outside?> Cybele’s frustration flared. <Girl. You are a Will-worker. And yet you allow the world define you. You let it guide you. Rule you. And that is why your magick remains restrained, unfulfilled. If you want to be a True Shaper, you need to trust your feelings and move forward. Stop seeking answers, and define your own. The time for mentors is at an end. I trust you. Now, trust yourself.> The Pattern trembled under her paws, growing cold – brutally so. Shortly, it felt as if she was standing atop a layer of ice. To remain in one place, her exposed skin would stick to it. Even now, she could feel her strength leeching away into the icy floor. <We must become a part of the Pattern again> Gillian thought, with great certainty. <Ginger, help me take this Jewel into us, as before...> The familiar didn’t answer – but Gillian’s body did. Flesh rippled and flowed, meshing over the Jewel like a blanket, drawing it down deep into herself. A coldness settled in her heart; the stone finding its new home. The chill spread through her, electric and thrilling. Soothing. Wondrous. <This is where I belong> she thought, <in the moment between what-is and what-can-be. I hold all of Amber in my mind, every detail of every walk I've taken through her streets, every word of every conversation overheard in the market, all the laughter and all the tears. Fear and joy. Love and despair. It's all here in me, and I'm here now, at this moment, to take my memories and restore Order from Chaos.> Gillian turned and contemplated the Pattern before her. The curves and lines and squiggles resonated sharply with the pristine Jewel in her heart. She decided she would walk it backwards, retracing her steps. Her memories of Amber would be her compass, the Jewel in her heart her rudder. She would remake the Pattern to fix what had been broken. And tweak it a little here and there. To improve it, of course. Cybele laughed warmly. <Clever, clever girl!> The Pattern beneath her paws flared like moonlight on snow. As she padded forward, she left behind a trail of ice – pure and luminous. Cleansing. <I was born for this.> Gillian purred, her heart swelling. With sphinxlike grace, Gillian retraced her steps along the Primal Pattern – leaving purity and grace in her wake. Creation shivered with anticipation, her influence reaching outward through Shadow in countless waves. Her Will shaped them, guided them, empowered them, sending them out from the True City into the void. And each wave spawned inexhaustible ripples and tides, stirring the bottomless ocean of possibilities. Old worlds were strengthened. New ones were shaped. And others simply sank beneath the tide. Gillian allowed her heart to guide her back home. But while she possessed the strength of the Jewel and her Will, the Pattern still had a cost – a sacrifice. Part of her bleed away into the Pattern, pieces of her, the woman she’d been, the life she’d lived. The dichotomy between who she’d been and who she could become undid her in the end. And she didn’t even feel those pieces of her soul drift away until they were already gone. Only a few steps remained until the Pattern ended when she heard, Ginger’s voice in her mind; tired and distant. <I think my time is done her, kitten. I’ve taught you everything you need.> Gillian didn't dare stop now, not when she was so close to completion. She divided her attention and addressed Ginger while she continued.<Why do you want to leave?> she asked, genuinely curious. <What does the Wake hold for you? Join with me now, forever. It will be a grand adventure. Our grand adventure.> Ginger chuckled. <The Wake? Kitten, I have the whole of Creation at my hands now, thanks to you. I can hear it calling.> She paused, considering. A soft, warm sigh. <Well, you’ve never been boring. But there’ll be changes. Costs.> She left this enigmatic statement hang. <Costs? What costs?> <There are always costs – seen and unseen> Ginger whispered in her head. Gillian took the last few steps. She felt her soul stretching like an elastic band, tighter, tauter, as energy prepared for sudden release. And with her soul, so too did the Pattern prepare for the final moment, the last instant before everything fell into place. That spontaneous second between inspiration and conception. The Primal Pattern shivered with anticipation. All she needed to do was take the final step and it would be healed, reborn. And so would she. There was absolutely no question in Gillian's mind that she was going to see this through. What would happen because of it--enigmatic costs and changes to herself and who knew what else?--did not even figure into the equation. Dworkin had picked her, and she would finish it. Benign goddess that she'd become, she'd kept Amber the way she'd remembered it: even Caine and Coteaz and Fiona just the way they were. For who knew what the repercussions would be for changing things? After all, this was Dworkin's creation, and he knew and understood far more than she did. She kept everything the same, except for fixing those things particularly troubling to the old hunchback: the Scar in Garnath healed, the connection Amber had to the Otherworld severed, and the Otherworld opened to the Wake so those souls trapped there could finally be free. Though it may not be all that important to Dworkin, she also envisioned a world where those afflicted with the Apathy Syndrome were reconnected with that part of themselves they had lost. All set right. And then just an added few tweaks. Yes, yes, she'd just acknowledged who knew what the repercussions would be for changing things? But these were small changes, and it would make every _better_. She pushed through the final step, anticipating the instant when all of creation would be reordered to her specifications. With the last step, her Will became form. The pull upomn her soul snapped, releasing its energy into Creation, resonating outward through countless worlds and possibilities… each imprinted with her thoughts and dreams and desires. The cleansing wave stretched outward, unstoppable – from Amber’s ivory towers to the obsidian steps of Chaos. For an instant, she felt her soul tearing down the middle – as if part of her was pulling away. This sensation ended quickly, almost as if some unconscious sense of self-preservation kicked in. She realized that the dissolution of the Dark Hour would also mean an end to Cybele and the other Pattern Ghosts. An end to her own power and potential. This blessing had been given to her and the others. Borrowed power. And now her Purpose had reached its culmination. Or had it? The feeling slipped away. Or was it pushed aside. No, she would not return to the banality of one world. One path. One possibility. To remain forever trapped outside the inner workings of Creation? That would be death to her now. And she had made a Pact. Pacts could not be broken so easily. So when she emerged from the Primal Pattern, Gillian had become something… else. Something… more. No longer a simple tool. She was something more akin to a God. And, for better or worse, she realized that she’d condemned her friends to the same Blessing as well. The pursuit of the knowledge found in the Deeper Mysteries and the development of personal power had always been her driving force. She had accomplished those. So what now? Seabhac...was dead. Jonanthan... Her brother. Whether or not he was whole again, his mind reunited with his body--that would be her indication as to whether or not the fixes she'd made to the Primal Pattern had worked. And she was curious. Once she had confirmed her success, all of creation awaited her. But first things first. She fixed Jonathon's face in her mind, remembering his teasing smile from that last evening they spent together before she'd experienced the Dark Hour for the first time. Then she bid the Pattern to take her to him. As she Willed, so it was. Gillian found herself in Jonathan’s hospice room – the air thick with stall sweat and soiled sheets. A single oil lamp burned in the corner, casting a little light over the otherwise oppressive and Spartan chamber. It provided her more than enough illumination to see the sole occupant. In the bed, her brother lay beneath his covers; the cloth twisted around his body like a shroud. For a moment, he remained perfectly still; hardly more than the rise and fall of his chest. But then a murmur escaped his lips and her rolled over in the bed, pulling the sheets tighter – as if he was suffering a bad dream. As long as she could remember, he’d never moved… not once since that faithless night. Gillian reached forward and touched his shoulder. "Jonathan," she whispered, the urgency in her voice transforming his name into an imperative. "Wake up!" Her brother groaned loudly, “Knock it off, Gilly.” He pulled the blankets tighter over his head. Another groan, pained, tired. “It’s way too early. And I feel like crap.” Gillian squealed and pulled the sheet away from Jonathan's face. "YES!" she shouted, ignoring his groans as she kissed his forehead. "You can have all the tantan-men you like." She stood up and twirled around. "Noodles, glorious noodles, EVERYWHERE!" “Loudness!” he whimpered, flinching. Gillian stopped and pointed at him. "Stay right there. Don't leave again. I'll be back, but I need to check in on my friends first." He stared up at her – his face still gaunt and pale, but his eyes now full of life. “You’ve gone completely, gob-spitting mad, haven’t you?” He blinked the sleep from his eyes, shifting in the bed like an old man. He blinked again, confused by something about her. “How much did I drink?” he muttered softly to himself. She turned partly away and brought the Pattern to mind. Her Pattern, in all of its beautiful, splendid, divine, dazzling detail. When she was at the center, she bid it to take her to Temnal. It wasn’t difficult. She sensed he was trying to create a Trump Sketch of her – the nagging sensation rather unsettling. A vague image of the Boyz (and one stunning blonde woman) flickered behind her eyes. They were atop a tower. . . which was crumbling into nothingness beneath their feet. Alarmed, she quickly opened herself up to the mental connection. <Temnal, send everyone through to me--it's safe here! Um...who's the chick?> <Joao. Sort of,> Temnal replied briefly. <We can explain later, maybe.> He extended a hand to the others. "It's Gillian. Come through!" [continued in You Can't Go Home Again] |
