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"When she walks through your bedrooms carrying butcher knives, you'll know the truth."
-Ophelia, Hamletmachine
The twilight sky was a harmony of pink and purple pastels and a Pyke somewhere was whispering grey; gauze sheet, light on the ears, quite coarse on the brain.
The Pyke of this pastel realm was a boy holding a blade, fighting alone (like a ghost from the past / a cosmic loop / we'll never escape). Dressed in a tattered, burn-splattered sailor suit that twinkled like a galaxy. A gem glowed on his chest, four green petals splayed in an 'x'. Another Star Guardian.
Green. The Star Guardian's voice spoke green, limp-leaf green. What a match for someone so young, so full of life, so…
Flammable.
His breathing was laboured. He was swaying on his feet. His torso curled to the right. A long singed wound lined his side. His eyes, however, remained steady. Shining with hope. Poor thing thought he could still fight.
Here comes the familiar. A small round pufferfish, her green a few shades lighter than his gem. Trilling in a falling tone as she swam waterless towards him. I don't need your pity, Nensi, he hissed through clenched teeth before squaring his shoulders, save yourself while you still can. (Yet, when the familiar rubbed her deflating body against his cheek, he leaned his head towards her and, for a split second, pressed his eyelids shut.)
If you want this city, the Star Guardian said, brandishing a serrated dagger carved from starlight, you gotta get through me first.
Pyke—me, not him, not them, me—scoffed. Do you think I'm here for your stupid city? Look at that youthful confidence. Porcelain: breathtaking, brittle. All too eager to sacrifice himself to protect those who can't fight. All too eager to sacrifice himself to defend his own home. Just kids being fools as kids are, thinking they're special enough to make a difference in this cruel, unfeeling universe.
We're just some spooky cosmic force's little plaything(s).
Pyke hated him. Pyke pitied him. Pyke hated him more.
I was you. Pyke had stood defending his home with all his armour and his blade and his heart. But one day, he was condemned (imagine losing all you fought for / they won't understand). Then, he was damned (they all have a place to return to / except you). Then, he was burned to death. The heavenly whispers in his ear as he burned turned on him, taunted him once he woke up (which hurt more, Empyrean? Pykes or pyres?).
Fight all you want. Save all you love. In the end, all that remains of your home, your realm, will be ash and dust and darkness. In this empty expanse, you'll feel so small, so pathetic, so… foolish. Everything burns until you can't tell apart crumbled rubble from charcoal trees from your own boiled eyes.
Isn't it our fate to be martyred by fire? To blister and blaze for believing too much in something? For giving too much of ourselves for something? We sacrifice our all, only to get used. Discarded. Driven to madness. Pykes never learn. None of them does. All they do is repeat the same mistakes. Over and over until the lives they don't value and the realms they don't deserve form a neverending cycle.
I'll put an end to it. I swear.
Star Guardians are fated to burn out. This one, though, was about to burn up. Pyke would make sure of it. They were both chosen from above by inspiration of celestial grace, but the flickering light of the First Star pales next to the all-embracing flames of the Foreglow.
Their blades—neon aurora against shimmering sparks—clashed as they fought. White-hot pulses wracked through the Star Guardian as he invoked the First Star for brighter starlight. His voice changed too, unburnt green forming sharp squares, four points digging digging digging digging into Pyke's skin. The Star Guardian's onslaught of strikes were faster, stronger. Almost impossible to keep up with. Almost.
Underneath all that strength, his wielding arm was trembling. His stances were strained. Even the simplest movement became increasingly clumsy.
And eventually, predictable.
The Star Guardian lurched forward with a swing that… wasn't much of a swing. Pyke dropped down to one knee, relishing the sight of stardust flying past. While the Star Guardian was still wide open, he immediately aimed his dagger for the heart—
Here's rosemary for remembrance, somethin' to remember me by.
A voice handing out flowers distracted Pyke. Purple and gold arcs slithered over his eyes, obscuring his vision. His flaming blade slipped into the Star Guardian's left arm.
Here's a daisy you no longer have. I'd give ya one, but PROJECT withered 'em all hahaha—
For a single head, the noises this Pyke made were surprisingly loud. Each Pyke from each realm has a voice marked by its own colour and shape. A trail of blood in the water he can sniff out. The louder the voice, the more stable the shape, the more tangible it'll look. The voices from this head looked like solid glitching numbers and sounded like metal grating together. Talking about so many deaths by so many faces. Their multiplicity made it hard to pinpoint which realm this Pyke lived in.
Very, very rarely, all these gnashing robotic noises would collapse into a singular voice, distinctly and delicately human, handing out flowers. But its heart is a clock.
Take all my marigolds. Don't take me away. Don't… take me… away…
The flaming dagger got stuck, fused with the chunks of char in the Star Guardian's arm. Had to yank the hilt harder. Tear out more flesh with it.
Somehow, the crackling of burnt meat sounded clearer than expected.
Just when Pyke—me, still me—thought that he could trace the realm of the delicate voice and its flowers, the voice came to an abrupt stop.
Pyke grunted. He'd missed the brief chance to track down the loudest head, the loudest voices tormenting him. All because of that kid. He should pay. Should get ripped open from gob to gut and burned inside out. Yes. And maybe after this, Pyke should kill a dozen or two more Pykes to cheer himself up.
Reinitialising… Some files may be corrupted.
It had begun. The have-we-never-mets none-of-you-are-reals your-parts-are-mines. The loud collective changing voices with changing memories—all sharing the same purple-gold colour, yet each one a unique glitching number; a fleeting flipped page of a book. If Pyke tried to focus only on one robotic whisper, its image would dissipate into the sky above.
The sky.
Four green petals unfurled beneath Pyke's feet. The Star Guardian decided to surprise by leaping into the sky, bidding for one final blow to crash with the brutal force of a falling star heading straight for him. A swansong, dagger angled down, not-swandive. The Star Guardian wanted to burn Pyke with him. Might've been an admirable move, if not for the moment the brilliant streak in the skyline made a sharp course change downwards. The attack had lost its momentum, dragging him back to the ground.
Fight(ing in vain) / and burn(ing out) / down (he went, crashing). The cycle loops and repeats. Not even the power from the First Star coursing in his veins could save him.
The Star Guardian sank below the surface, propped up and cradled by a crater of his own creation. His body bobbed in waves with every wheeze escaping his parted lips. Flowing crimson streams tangled in his long red locks, spread mermaid-like. Cold droplets clung onto cool-brown skin.
Pyke crouched down on the grass to face the fallen guardian. A pair of glazed eyes trailed up, still harbouring remnants of rage and starlight, but all they could muster was a weak glare. Not long now, Pyke shushed soft and calm as he brought his flaming blade close to the Star Guardian's throat, slitting it open from ear to ear. Blood spewed forth–hissing upon contact, bubbling, evaporating into red mist.
Once dying, they all start to look the same. The light of innocence in those wide honey eyes broken by the recognition of betrayal once they've finally registered who'd killed them. No matter how good we are, no one is going to be good to us, not even ourselves. The truth's bitter. I know. Watching their innocence crack is really satisfying. Watching the life fade from their/your/our eyes? Even better.
When a Pyke dies it feels good. When you watch yourself die it feels good.
No, not good. Nothing. A voice has emptied. The house’s empty. Like I’ve left me. Light leaves the more deceiveds then I feel so light so light. So light so light. It always hurts inside. Shade-faces. Nails hit only bone; can’t claw them out. Can’t touch. Have to destroy outside. Hold their/your/our throat the way he has no hand to hold. Saw light and tender warmth started taking space in pain's stead.
High-pitched trills rang in the crater. The familiar bounced the full weight of her round body on the Star Guardian's still chest, but flames were already spreading from his neck to his face. She only stopped bouncing when the four petals of his gem flapped like a butterfly's wings, shaking itself off his heart. It flew away, leaving his body behind to shatter piece by piece into glowing shards of embers and stardust.
Soon, the whole realm was engulfed in neon flames. The cosmos was taking back the world it bore. It suffocated the world it bore within its flames. Buried everything in a shrinking core.
Time to leave.
Pyke's head felt a little number than before, a little quieter than before. Spinning less than before. Robots chattered again—Irelia, liarelia; I'm good, I'm fine, look at me? Look at me like me—no traces of a voice dreaming of flowers. Don't worry, he'd skewer that loud Pyke on his blade next time. No Pyke can hide from him forever. The Foreglow won't let them.
If he couldn't get the loudest head, he just knew the next best thing.
So many Pykes, so many voices, so many heads in his head. Soft-bellied cowards cowering in the comforts of their homes. All of them whispering. Taunting. Mocking. The voices that brought him the greatest pain, however, were coming from a particular Pyke. A cold, formless Pyke. He'd always wanted to take down this one head once and for all. Then, finishing off the rest would be easier.
And it'd be silent at last.
With a slice of his dagger, Pyke ripped open an interdimensional rift to let himself in—along with all the cries of this new realm.
The wall between realms had been torn down. Nothing could shield him from the full force of this Pyke's voices anymore. He thought he already knew them, was already used to their pain. He was wrong. The finned flurry of cries rushing-swimming towards the back of his mind... he could make out names from them now. So many names. Too many names scraping at the curves of his skull with tiny razor-sharp teeth.
And orders. THERE'S STILL MORE. THEY WILL PAY. They filled his mind THERE'S STILL with a MORE single colour: a blue THERE'S a blue so beautiful, the blue of the ocean dotted with STILL silvers of a MORE morning sky. THERE'S STILL MORE / THERE'S STILL MORE / THERE'S STILL Again and again they screamed MORE, slamming THERE'S STILL slamming him in the chest with each MORE syllable THEY. He was WILL choking but there PAY was there was no smoke, THEY WILL PAY / THEY there was no WILL fire. He couldn't PAY / THEY couldn't breathe he was drowning in orders WILL PAY / THEY WILL in whispers in threats beautiful blue ocean PAY / THEY WILL PAY / THEY draining his warmth draining WILL PAY drowning he was drowning shut up shut up shut up—
I know you.
Another voice cut through the commotion. Not an order. Not a name. A blame. You were watching me, spoken in his own voice, this time as light as spring breeze, with all the violence that comes with spring's resurrection—the still-clinging cold death, the splitting and bursting open of blossoms—yet as deep as the sea.
Memories gushed in like a wave reaching places where water shouldn't be. The tide was rising inside, outside, everywhere. Drag, drain, drown. Salted foul, cold over him. Bail them out. Bail them. Out. Memories aren't supposed to… he wasn't remembering, this isn't remembering, no. It's not true. Not mine. Seawater eroded at the lines separating me-Pyke with the fires and whispers and colours from him-Pyke where fish, debris, dead bodies and limbs drift by.
Tattered sails flew high in the clouds. A Pyke (which of us?) grasped onto a lifeline with gloved hands. Desperate pitiful eyes looked up for a saviour. Foolish enough to give too much of himself for a fish trade. Naive enough to believe that captains would take care of him if he's talented enough, but no, he's still disposable. He'll still drown. All the coins he'd brought won't change that. Captains will do it when the time's come for it. They'll hook you on a vow and leave you to be devoured. Hearts, dreams and promises all break—
like a lifeline.
Someone had severed the lifeline. Burned it away with a knife. A shadow as dark as the depths, but graced by colours and flames. He looked familiar.
No, that's not me. I'm me. I'm still me. Still me. I am Pyke. The one the flames could not hold. The one the burnt realm didn't keep the only one—
I'm the only one—
A great jaw clamped shut.
The sheer shock of it sent the memories retreating into the ocean. Back on dry land, Pyke had to re-learn where to direct his unsteady thoughts, his rocking gaze. Gloved hands fished out a damp parchment. Unrolled it. You were on the ship, said the spring-sea voice, looking like a cracked mirror image with the gashes running down his head. Scarred brows furrowed. Bright eyes scanned the writings on the parchment.
You killed me… Pyke.
He said his name, their name, like an accusation. Thrown by all the Pykes Pyke had ever killed and all the Pykes Pyke's going to kill. You did this to me / you did this to us / how could you / what did we do / why us / why / why / what do you want / what does the Foreglow want / from us? / from me?
The reflection let out a long laugh at their shared name; something about the way he laughed differed from all the Pykes laughing happily in their homes, how his laughter scraped raw over the sharp salt crystals still lodged in his lungs. It's absurd, isn't it, the thought of being betrayed and killed by your own self?
So is watching everything you've cared about burn into ash.
But the reflection must've understood something. The light of innocence, the light of life in his eyes were already gone. Broken. Cut away. Now, those eyes shone like green fire.
Finally, a fire to match mine. This should be fun.
No, I didn't kill you.
Not yet.