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The Holy Balance of Chaos and Order.
Not synonymous with Evil and Good, mind you. Merely two facets of all civilizations that must exist, lest they rot in stagnation or succumb to anarchy. All must adhere to the maintaining of two different ideals.
One cannot exist without the other.
History depicts the youngest Chaos Lord, Klarion of the Witch-Children, as having been the driving force behind Nabu’s own ascension into lordship.
So too did history depict the newest Order Lord, Nabu of the Babylonians, help the young mystic into his own ascension.
“As decreed by the Holy Balance,” the lords speak in unison, “you shall be known as Complements. Lord Klarion the Witch-Boy, and Lord Nabu, do you accept the duty and terms of holding such a title?”
They share a look of deep resentment.
Nabu had hoped that being called upon by his brethren and superiors would shed light on what he was to do with the unruly villain. Instead, he had seemingly walked into the noose of commitment. Zatara within found it hard to understand, though knowing better than to voice his questions.
This was a matter between lords.
“Whatever,” Klarion is first to answer. “Can’t we get this over with?”
“That answer is unsatisfactory, Chaos Lord,” Order’s unified voices scold.
“Nevertheless, it is an answer,” Chaos’ harmony of voices giggled. “Lord Klarion, you understand this is something that cannot be changed. Lord Nabu will define you now!”
“As Lord Klarion will define you, Lord Nabu.”
The newest Lord of Order bows his head. “I accept the title and all that comes with it.”
The cosmic scale lights up with joy.
A union of Complements was not unheard of. It was a significant event that bound two lords to their duty. Though they will fight, never will they finish it. Though they will contain, never will they diminish. One could argue this could be a marriage of some sort.
Not a combining between lovers, but of their sacred elements.
“Ugh, I get it. Can't you just say what needs to be said and end this already? Teekl gets nervous out in the cosmos.”
Nabu fights a sneer.
“Not so fast, sweet brother,” Chaos purrs. “You know of each other, but do you know each other? What drives you, the blood you’ve spilt, the history you’ve made?”
“Is that necessary?” Nabu raises a brow.
Order hums, “It is everything, dear brother. Know thy enemy and you shall know thyself. Balance is key.”
Klarion makes yet another snarky comment, this time blissfully ignored by all.
“By order of the Holy Balance,” the two sides begin to chant, “Order and Chaos decree. Let these two be unified, bound forever and gain thee!”
A burst of light covers their bodies, cold as it was warm and blinding as it was powerful.
Nabu finds himself standing alone, someplace similar to his own inner sanctum. Something urges him to look down upon himself, to see his own hands greet him instead of Giovanni Zatara’s.
It’s as though he’s hardly changed since his death upon the steps of Babylon.
An illusion, surely. Something like a gift from his brethren.
“Teekl! Oh Teeeeekl!”
The young voice races around him. He sees a young boy race around the emptiness, kneeling and looking under suddenly formed chairs and tables. Upon them were blurred trinkets, old and mystic in nature.
“In here, brother Klarion,” the cat answers upon a small television. “Look at what the mortals are doing today!”
An awed gasp leaves the little boy.
Klarion, he knows this to be, regardless of his archaic clothes and unique hairstyle. Though why this was significant, Nabu hardly knows.
The Witch-Boy and his familiar, not yet an anchor and yet a best friend all the same, lean down before the television.
It’s a news report about the Justice League…
How could that be? Klarion was a little known threat when they began that union of power, really just a nuisance Nabu could handle on his own along with Kent Nelson.
“Looking at the heroes again, nephew?”
Emerging from darkness was the mystic champion, Jason Blood.
“‘Nephew?’” Nabu murmurs to no one.
“Once upon a dream,” Klarion’s older rasp answers.
It seems he’s gotten what he needs from Nabu’s memory. Likely cut short due to it being shared by his own history with Vandal Savage.
“He’s not just a hero, Uncle J̵̠̼̒̏̈ä̸̯́s̸̞̱̟̾̈́ŏ̸̝͊n̸̫̮̰͆̈́͝,” the Witch-Boy’s smile is larger and more genuine than any Nabu had seen prior. “He’s a soldier! Like me! Like us!”
The immortal jailer smiles down upon his ward, patting his head as they watch the shaky commentary of the news.
Young Klarion was fascinated by the moniker of Doctor Fate. The memory blurs here, mumbles and shouts of how the Witch-Boy adored this “new hero” could’ve warmed anyone’s heart. He doesn’t replicate the complicated spells, though his excitement makes him leap to his feet to punch and kick at the air around.
Yes, a heartwarming sight.
For those who weren’t already soured by the Witch-Boy.
“You were mortal,” Nabu is stunned by this revelation. “You knew of me.”
“That was…”
Klarion looks away, ashamed that the old geezer had the upper hand at the moment. “That was a long time ago. I don’t even remember it! Who cares what happened back then? I’m here now, and I won’t let you forget me.”
“Mrow.”
“I know what I said, dumb cat.”
Despite not even being there, it seemed his bond with his anchor triumphed over all.
There is nothing to control the weather in this place. No idle winds, no sun to bathe them. And yet, everything is cold.
Nabu has come to terms that they are, in a way, kindred spirits. Both members of the Holy Balance, both doomed for long lives in ever-changing cultures and societies, the list is endless! Sure, they don’t like one another, but that mattered very little as it didn’t interfere with their duties.
Klarion was far more alike than he realized; a soul destined for Chaos as he was for Order. The story he had been told– the story he had assumed– was that the Witch-Boy was just another nuisance to Order; a primordial entity that wore the face of a boy to ensure people underestimated him.
To ensure he had the better hand of unleashing Chaos.
Things are never as they seem…
“Mother, please!!”
The echoic scream forces Nabu to turn, unaware that another memory had forged itself behind him.
It was Klarion, as evidenced by his unique hair and rasped voice, but his skin was dusted… blue? Flames danced around his feet, not yet rising but making themselves known by kissing his buckled shoes. He is bound by rope upon a stake, Teekl sharing the same fate upon a smaller pyre.
“I beg of you all! Don’t do this!! The men from Blue Rafters–”
“Silence, heretic!” a woman sharing his features shrieks. “You are no son of mine!! Burn as Croatoan commands!”
Shared in the cacophony of faith, damnations, and screams of the innocent boy was the howling of his even more innocent cat. Teekl’s tail had already begun to burn, stilled for a moment in place by the Witch-Men and Witch-Women all around to better scald the flesh.
Croatoan…
Such a mystery was known by Nabu, partly due to an old host having a fascination with the unknown. The lost Roanoke colony, a carved tribe’s name. But as it was a tribe, so too was it the name of a mortal god. The Witch-God.
Nabu is unable to stomach the injustice, the call of Order burning his veins. The boy and his pet burns, such a fate can’t be altered as it was a memory. Does this scar hurt as much as an open wound does? Does Klarion look upon this with scorn as Nabu does with memories of his father?
Were they destined to be forsaken by their sires and mistresses? Abandoned for the sake of Order and Chaos?
Ashes scatter across the empty landscape, disappearing into nothing.
The clicks of the Witch-Boy’s heels are soft, and yet are as gunshots to the new silence. “I’m a paradox,” he explains. “Abuse and perversion spawned my blood. Maybe that’s why I am as I am… Maybe that’s all I’m meant to be.”
“Would you say the same for all who are bound by blood?”
“You mean to say if I think you’re like me?”
A ghostly Teekl roams around their feet.
“You could be. You should be.” Klarion’s nails tap against his fair cheek. (Funny how such a natural color of mortals now seems like a curse after seeing the hue it once was.) “But you’re nothing like Savage. Not in any way that matters to me.
“You’re both some horrible, twisted paragons of Order. But you’re… you’re you. You’re old, annoying, and a constant thorn in my side. But Savage? He’s just a thing. A toy! Wind him up and watch him go.”
“He believes you to be a caged pet. A weapon he can aim and fire when necessary.”
A deep sigh. Nabu shared the sentiment with a bowed head.
“When did it get so complicated?”
And to that, there is no answer.