Hell, p.33
Hell, page 33
No words passed between them until they were back on the North Bank, where Yurgis slowed to a trot. As she began to piece together how Yurgis had tracked her down, a heavy guilt descended over her.
“Did you hurt her?” She asked, fearing for Maria.
“Not badly, lesson had to be learned. She sent you into nest of vipers. Those bitches seek to use you for evil ends.”
More lies. She was reasonably sure that her mother would never harm her in any way. So confident was she in Maria’s protection that she pushed further, “Why did you kill Grayson and not Arthyr?”
“You think me stupid? I killed no one. Gray was already gone when I came.”
This struck her as truth, as it wasn’t like him to deny himself credit for the removal of his enemies.
That only left Arthyr.
“All your life I seek to protect…”
“I don’t need you to protect me from the world!” Tat cried, no longer fearing any physical retribution and furious over his blatant refusal to not exist.
Yurgis laughed, “Is that what you think is about, dear Daughter? That has never been my aim. I am protecting world from you!”
Chapter Fourteen:
Necropolis
Mother,
By the time you read this I will be Dead...
Disgusted, she crumpled the sheet of paper like so many before it, throwing it into her wastebasket in frustration. This had been so much simpler when nobody cared about her. When there was nobody who would miss her when she was gone. Now she felt the need to explain herself, as if a well written suicide note could somehow soften the blow for a mother she’d never known. Someone who loved her…
The overflowing wastebasket radiated an atmosphere of grim severity as she fondled her knife, honed to a razor’s edge. She’d been at it for days now, feverish writing, beginning as a way to take her mind off the debilitating torment of soldier’s disease, slowly degenerating into this macabre exercise. If she was to create one thing that would live on after she was gone, she wanted it to be a grand indictment of the human condition, a powerful rejection of the forces of evil. Yet, she continually found herself lacking in the execution of such lofty intentions; prose bordering on that thin line between childish and mentally deficient.
Uncrumpling one of her more promising failures, again disappointed at its petty juvenility.
...I’ve been locked in here for two weeks!...
As if a simple list of grievances was any substitute for a true accounting of a human lifetime lived in fear and apathy.
...My room had been searched!...
If she’d had any idea that Yurgis had already located her hiding spot behind the vent, she might’ve put up more of a fight rather than feebly allowing him to escort her from the Tree of Life unopposed. In truth, she’d been relieved that her wish for a reprieve from the loaded crosshairs of sexual conquest had been granted. While the added incentive of being able to shoot up, then curl up in her warm bed seemed an irresistible prospect.
...But that was a story, and I know not all stories have happy endings...
Tiphareth never came for her. For perhaps the thousandth time in the intervening weeks, Tat imagined how that night might’ve turned out without her Father’s intervention. Her mind, against her wishes, obsessively poring over every detail in primal mimicry of adolescent fantasy, which was all her stunted emotional machinery could muster.
...Are you aware there are at least two grown women actively trying to fuck me?...
She read those words many times, continually astonished at the depth of dismay that had caused her to commit such a foul admission to paper. And to a paper she expected her own mother to read no less; the pulpy harbinger of her imminent demise.
As much as the idea consciously repelled her, something about such aberrance must intrigue her on a visceral level, because she’d been unable to forget it. It haunted her during sleepless nights. Her mind, falling into the old hypothetical game.
Given the choice, who would she prefer?
Taking a hard look at her feelings she could honestly say she felt closer to Hod, yet somehow above her, as if the youngest sephirah was something resembling a known quantity; while Tiphareth possessed a distinct feeling of depthless mystery bolstered by a brash, unrepentant confidence wholly absent in her rival.
Far from discouraging her, as was clearly Hod’s intention, the revelation of Tiphareth’s quasi-incestual relationship with Jack stirred something deep within. Her brain, constantly bombarding her with images of the two of them locked in carnal entanglement. There was a desecrated purity about it, a brother and sister knowing each other so well, no secrets, no boundaries…
With a sigh, she once again relegated the spindled sheet to the bottomless bin of rejection and sorrow. Rising from her desk, she gazed through the barred windows into the finite section of drab, midnight sky arcing over their overgrown back garden. For the first time, conceiving of heaven as a prison.
Yurgis must have finished with his mysterious errands, for he was now a perpetual presence in the house. He delivered her one meal a day, and searched her room without warning or provocation. It was only through acts of desperate cunning and luck bordering on the realm of divine providence that she retained possession of her knife. She hadn’t seen Maria since returning from the Tree of Life, though she still heard them fighting every night.
The Symposium was two days away. Where she would be exposed to the world, for good or ill. Yurgis took constant pains to remind her, cryptically alluding to the sinister finale of an endgame she was not privy to. In truth, she’d had so much on her mind of late that the impending conference lacked any concrete reality. Existing in her consciousness as another nebulous future event she probably wouldn’t live to see.
Tiphareth had said that many of the sephirah were going to be in attendance; were they planning something? Is that why she hadn’t come for her? It was all she had to cling to.
Gathering up the scattered, crumpled remnants of what promised to be her last battle on earth, Tat took the wastebasket to the fireplace to burn the evidence of her intentions. The one superfluous luxury she was allowed was a single lit candle, which she carefully used to transmute her sorrow unto ashes. As the paper burned, dispersing her foul rhetoric into heat and light, she stared into the flames, mind blessedly blank, until they died. Stamping out the last glowing embers with a merciless boot, a small sprinkle of falling soot broke her attention.
A precipitous impulse came to her, causing her to duck her head and step into the fireplace. Gingerly, she probed the depths of the flue, sneezing as decades of sticky, black powder buildup cascaded down upon her. Coughing as the cloud settled around her, she wiped her eyes, looking up the chimney to see, to her astonishment, an unobstructed path to the starry night sky. A path large enough that one of her slight build could conceivably ascend…
A sudden, faint knock at her door scared her half to death. It was the middle of the night and she’d been confident of privacy. Her initial thoughts were of her unsecured knife before she calmed down; Yurgis never knocked when he invaded her kingdom…
“Mother?”
Maria’s voice came back to her in a husky whisper, sounding anxious and defeated. “My treasure, I don’t have much time so I need you to listen carefully. Can you do that for me?”
“Are you okay? Has he…”
“Tatiana! That doesn’t matter, I need you to listen now.”
“Okay.” She acquiesced.
“Tomorrow eve, I am to accompany Yurgis. I fear this may be the last time you will see me alive.”
“What!?”
“Enough. That’s a worst case scenario, it might not come to that. Either way, he has moved you beyond my reach, so I am here to impart to you my final gift,” a thick manilla envelope emerged from the crack under the door. “You never had a proper birth certificate, there you will find all the documents necessary to identify you as the direct heiress of the Seldeen empire. All that your grandfather has built. Those documents alone are not enough however. You will need to obtain my will, which is secured in a safety deposit box at Barings, now commit these numbers to memory…”
For a long time after her mother had gone, for perhaps the final time, Tat sat by the door clutching the envelope to her chest, crying. Though for her mother or for herself wasn’t immediately clear. She couldn’t do this, didn’t her mother see that? Couldn’t she sense that her troubled daughter had little time left herself? All her life Tat had secretly wished for a life of riches and power, but that was as far as it could ever go, a secret wish, fated to remain forever unfulfilled. This simple sheaf of papers could never impart upon her the will to carry through on such a promise. She opened the envelope and pulled out her official certificate of birth, shocked by the name Maria had filled in...
Ciara Magdalena Seldeen.
In a flash of ferocious anger, Tat rose, meaning to throw the papers in the fire, her mind a whirlwind of vehement denials.
Thiswasn’therthatwasn’thernameshedidn’tknowthisgirlatall...
She didn’t exist.
Her inexplicable fury at Maria’s impertinence intensified. As if willfully summoned, all at once it consumed her, the dreaded, familiar sensation of electricity ascending her spine in delicious waves.
Overcome and incapacitated by the strength of the attack, she stumbled as she approached the hearth, kicking over the rennaisance painting that had so offended her in it’s uncanny resemblance to her grandfather. On her knees before it, her gaze locked with that of the painted man, now long dead. Before her eyes, the portrait began to subtly change. Obvious paint strokes softening, fading before disappearing altogether to reveal impossible detail; as if the canvas was slowly becoming a window. The antiquated drawing room background fell away as the space within the frame expanded to limitless depth. The man now stood on an unfamiliar city street in front of a camera shop. As the horror dawned upon her that she looked into a pair of living eyes, a deep recognition suffused her being.
Izaak Oginski!
Accompanying this certainty came a high-pitched buzzing in her ears that pierced her brain like an ice pick, causing her to slump to the ground, holding her head in agony until darkness claimed her…
Upon collapsing again into something resembling consciousness, an ephemeral cityscape, born of ghostly light and color, stretched out endlessly before her. Floating lazily like a cloud, ominous peaks and shadowy, indistinct structures breaking the monotonous facade of this dreamlike metropolis seemingly without meaning, without reason. The entire effect resembled a child’s drawing of a city rendered in watercolor, out of focus and much too bright.
As she drifted, the aether surrounding her crackled with unseen electricity. Fed by mighty bolts of lightning that struck out silently from a tumultuous sky, momentarily casting their revealing light on the further reaches. Most of the buildings she passed were featureless hulks, hardly there at all, barely maintaining grip on whatever meagre existence they clung to in this desolate place. Here and there, others shone brighter, with more focus, evidently maintained by more vigilant caretakers…
Crossing a formless bridge over a gorgeous aquatic mist, she caught sight of a grand cathedral, emanating a blue aura brighter than any she’d seen thus far. Perfectly focused and real, though possessing a fantastical architecture that could in no way exist in accordance with the laws of physics. Gossamer thin stairwells connecting soaring towers that scraped the turbulent firmament like hands reaching for heaven...
Stay Back! Who are you? A ghostly light accosted her, vaguely feminine in form.
Her inability to reply inspired this specter to proceed as if she was a threat, appearing to gather up and weave together strands of the pure light this strange place was created of. These strands solidified into an arcane symbol, which in turn summoned an irresistible force that pushed her back, like an invisible wall had sprung up between them. She was expelled several meters before the ward reached its limit. Not knowing what she was doing, she reached out and a shudder vibrated throughout her formless existence...
The ward shattered, discorporating once again into light.
The apparition before her recoiled first in fright. Then, growing curious, focussed its existence, becoming more distinct; taking on more human characteristics. Even before the face formed, Tat recognized her.
It was Tiphareth.
Tatiana? is that you? She approached cautiously, her luminous body, breathtakingly beautiful.
She had a vague desire to reply, yet no matter how hard she tried, her voice remained hidden away.
Tatiana? Oh, I get it, you’re dreaming. I’m impressed, not many dreaming minds can fully manifest here, and the ease with which you circumvented my ward… you are certainly full of surprises. Her lips did not move, the words seemingly arising from nothing within Tat’s mind. I’ve been calling out to you, you know, hoping you would find this place. Here, let me help you.
Tiphareth raised a luminous hand. One swift strike on her shoulder and Tat awoke in her dream, her waking consciousness flowing into her dream body.
How did you do that?
Nothing to it, a little jolt of Auric in the right place is enough to waken our little dreamer.
So we are dreaming then?
Not quite. You’re dreaming, I’m working. Well, my body is laying in post-coital trance in the arms of my focus, while the important part of me works here.
With her newfound clarity, Tat put it together, So this is the Astral? Yetzirah?
Yes, a representation assembled by your perception. I am performing daily upkeep on our temple to Freyja. Do you like it? She asked, indicating the cathedral. 100 rooms, each with detailed egregorical minutiae, is a monumental task to achieve, and even harder to maintain.
Again Tat looked upon the imposing edifice, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, putting the vaunted faery tale castles of her childhood imagination to shame.
Did you build it yourself?
Tiphareth laughed, God no, it’s been an ongoing project for the last thirty years, we all work to maintain it. Freyja is a fickle archetype, her worship is in decay so she is dying a slow death. This temple, and several other lesser structures around the world, are all she has left, all that ties her rudimentary consciousness to existence. Ironically, this is what makes her such an attractive prospect for our research. When an archetype is facing extinction, they begin to hunger for Auric, and since we are the main source providing it to them they are more tractable to meeting with us. Versus another archetype whose worship is still prevalent in the world, who receives more than enough without stooping to deal directly with mortals.
So you’re saying you’ve met her? Tat was incredulous, but at the same time quite interested.
When I first started here, she barely ever showed herself, though I could sense her presence within the temple at times. Now I hear her footsteps almost every night. She and I have developed a unique bond. Would you like to meet her?
Can I? I mean, would that be safe? I have a way of destroying beautiful things…
It should be fine, there’s a courtyard near the pinnacle where she spends most of her time. If we maintain a respectful distance, I imagine whatever Auric you channel will be swiftly consumed. We just need to make an adjustment so you will be able to perceive her. Archetypes exist here only as a shadow exists in the waking world. Again Tat was on the receiving end of a swift strike, this time against her midsection.
The entire world around her shifted. What before had seemed at least semi-solid was rendered into nothing more than pulsating strands of light, lacking any analogue to reality. Tiphareth as well changed from a recognizable caricature of herself to something resembling an oblong ovoid of pure light, an egg. A long, silver cord connected to her plexus trailed down and through the indistinct ground, disappearing into the unfathomable darkness below.
Wait… that’s… not right... Tiphareth’s thought voice coming through, simultaneously confounded and confused.
What? What’s wrong.
Your… cord… that’s not right at all… it’s supposed to connect our Yetziric manifestations to our bodies, but…
Tat then took notice of her own cord. While Tiphareth’s hung down loosely, indicating that they were perhaps somewhere above the physical world, her own ascended upward, stretched taut, fading from existence a meter above their heads.
It resembled a noose…
What does that mean? Tat asked, growing increasingly anxious.
I can’t even begin to guess, I’ve never seen anything like this. Tiphareth admitted, reaching out for Tat’s cord, her luminous egg, radiating curiosity…
As she touched it, there came the gut wrenching call of the cosmic leviathan, the sound of a Universe ending. A wave of limitless force buckled the world around them until it shattered in a vicious cataract, tearing the fabric of Yetzirah with divine violence. A titanic shipwreck, inexorably drawn down into the bosom of quiddity, the psychic ocean constituted of the human imagination.
Where the temple of a dying archetype once stood, naught but a gaping maw of darkness remained. The frayed ends, even now, knitting together, seeking to heal this grievous wound. In one fleeting instant, thirty years of sustained effort reduced to its constituent elements and scattered amongst the stars. She stood alone in the ragged void left in its wake. Only, she wasn’t alone. Towering over her, he stood, magnificent plumage sky blue, fringed in black, fading to pure white around the beak and those terrible eyes…
The Falcon-god.
A long, harsh scream escaped her throat as she returned to herself, standing naked in a cage of shadows as the murky emanation of pre-dawn light snaked through the bars on her windows.
