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Red, blue and gold weave a tapestry of discord. Splashes, clashes and echoes reverberate through wastelands. Thin layers cling to gaunt bodies. Strings snap, knots loosen and yarns unravel. Blessed drops blur cherished memories and sharpened tips. Animosity lingering in rust, copper and dew.
“Run ◼ ◼ ◼!”
He wakes with a start.
A vast expanse of black stretches beyond what his eye can see. The cosmos pushes and pulls, rocking his gondola back and forth. A lone bell hanging from the prow chimes with the waves. He breathes with it. Lit candles adorn the bow and unoccupied floor of the cabin. An eclectic mix of trinkets litter the rest of the space.
On nights where sleep evades him, he takes to looking at the stars. Circles of gases forming and burning in different coloured lights, dotting the emptiness. Their shimmer, dim and distant, pales in comparison to the flames accompanying him. Still, he watches with rampant attention.
Each and every star is unique, they tell different tales. Of comedy and tragedy. Of saints and fiends. Of life and death. He closes his eyes, tears fall unobstructed yet obscured. He feels the cosmos wash over him and sighs. A candle's flame licks his hand. He lets it. Flashes of red, blue, gold and red, red, red.
The gondola comes to a stop. Its bell quiets as the waves cease their ebb. The calm before a storm. Flames flicker despite the lack of wind. They point at the starboard side where a planet lies.
It started small. Ripples of memoria spread with the planet as its focus. Before suddenly, a violent burst threatens to capsize him. Energy hum beneath his skin, enticing him to fall in a sweet dream.
A cacophony of laughter, along with an obnoxious noisemaker reach his ears. They linger, as if to observe his reaction. He grabs hold of his oar in lieu of a verbal response. The waves yield to his will, steering him in the blast's origin.
They leave–jeering and giggling–delighted at his predictability. Left alone, the surroundings return to quiet. Not for long, as the bell begins to chime once more.
He arrives at his destination.
A towering structure of cities contained within disks of memoria. Frivolous emotions oscillate. Tendrils originate from the gilded cage of pleasure. Memoria dances in a captivating fashion. Neck high, dragging him under.
He ignores the way it laps at his skin, immune to the call of cloying sweetness. Surveying the area meets him with disappointment. All have fallen in temptation leaving behind disarray. Devoid of all essence.
Brandishing a quill, he notes prominent details. Unique tidbits that form the planet. Once he’s gathered enough, he prepares to compose. Ink oozes, pooling at the parchment’s surface. He closes his eyes.
“Hello!”
Turning around, he finds a small child. The child in white peers at him with curious eyes. He stares back. Silence stretches between them before it’s broken by the child’s wide grin.
“What are you doing here mister?”
“...sightseeing.”
“But there’s nothing to see…” The child pouts, face scrunching in concentration. “I know! Let’s find my sister and we can look at the stars!”
“You… and your sister live here?”
“Uh huh! Along with mama.” The child frowns, “Hardly anyone visits so we’re all alone.”
Just as quickly, the child brightens, “But you’re here now! Unless you don’t wanna play?”
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Sunday!”
He's led to a garden. A lone gazebo stands in the centre of vibrant towering trees. Vines sprouting lilac flowers strangle ivory pillars. Marquise cut gold hovered atop its emerald cupola. Inside, two marble benches faced a round table. The child looked around for his sister, showing no sign of exhaustion. Failing to find a trace, the child beckons him to sit on the bench.
“Where could she have gone?” The child sulks, legs swinging alternately.
He stares before muttering weak comfort, “She might be with your mother.”
Sunday stills, blinking at him.
“You're probably right, mister.”
“I bet they're waiting for me! That means, we should finish playing quickly!” The child jumped excitedly, pulling his clothes.
“Let's go in the trees, I'll show you my base! It's a secret though, don't tell anyone.”
He lets himself be dragged, soon they reach a clearing. Multicoloured flowers form a ring around a patch of grass. The child plops down, displacing petals up their hair. He sits next to yellow roses and violets, careful not to crush them. A light brush of his shirt tickles the child causing wings to flutter.
Gleeful laughter and hazy whispers accompany the sun as it sets. Deep blue melds and eventually engulfs soft orange. The moon shies away from view. In its place, twinkling stars smear across the sky. The child’s mouth opens before falling silent, jaws clamping shut.
Sunday makes a shushing gesture, “Do you hear that?”
Low chirps of a wounded bird. He nods, a quick scan reveals a baby bird–a Charmony Dove. Its purple-blue streaked feathers are stained with blood. Sunday cups it, hands gentle. The bird shivers from the winter air, burrowing itself into Sunday's warm palms.
“What should we do, mister?”
Sunday cranes his neck to look at him, eyes pitifully calm.
He takes a moment to consider,
‘What should we do?’
She let's go.
“What should you do?”
“Run!”
“What would you do?”
They giggle.
“We should—”
“Nurse it back to health.”
Vivid lilac crashes and burns.
A man in a white suit stands still, surrounded by the bustling crowd. He jolts as if woken. Passing blurs of featureless flesh tempts him to pat his cheek. Hurrying to a nearby chapel, he feels wind on his face and frowns.
He's beckoned to enter the chapel by carefully attuned melodies aiming to soothe souls. Unconvinced, he turns his back. No amount of beautiful notes can hide the ambition and sinful indulgence that lay festering in its oak foundation.
They sound of;
Pursed lips and clicking tongues. Metal clashing against one another. Rustling fabric and ticking clocks. Harried steps on solid ground. Foot taps and impatient sighs. Whispered prayers begging for salvation.
He's tapped on the shoulder.
A large bell chimes, halting any other noise.
Heavy strikes of mallet on rim vibrate in his ear.
Bubbles of various sizes surround him, a technicolor reverie. They depict scenes conjured from wonderful fantasies. Its finish is mirror-like, yet his reflection will not show.
He doesn't look back.
A bubble pops, starting a chain reaction.
Tiny specks of water dissipate into his skin.
He stands his ground.
Nausea overtakes his vision forcing bile up his throat. The unfamiliar cotton fabric wraps around him in a scaly grip. A scent of the salty sea, distinctly without accompanying wet sands, wafts in his nose.
It's wrong.
All of it.
“Mister, are you okay?”
He opens his eyes, unaware of when he closed them. In front of him is a familiar face. He's certain they've met before. But he can't remember when nor can he recall his name.
“Would you like to take a rest?” concern drips from the man's mouth.
“No.”
“I insist, you look as though you'll topple over.”
His legs shift to open space, stance bracing for a run. The man's hopeful expression cracks a bit. Desolation peeks through and he's reminded of a young child.
He takes the offered hand.
The cathedral is made of wood. From its foundation up to its confessionals and pews. Stained glass on the apse depicts a three-faced figure. A psychedelic halo frames them, centre bearing resemblance to a pupil.
Not a single soul can be seen. Passing through the nave, they reach the altar. It too is made from wood. Heavenly choirs and harmonious tunes are engraved in bronze. Pristine cloth overhangs, obscuring some details.
It smells heavily of incense from censers that hang from the ceiling. In the rising smoke, he can almost make out a dull sky. There were clouds. It was such a dull dull blue.— lets go of his hand.
“We can sit on the pews.”
He catches his breath.
The man rambles without a prompt, “Whenever I need to clear my mind, my feet lead me here. Some days we are provided guidance. Some days I'm left alone. Both instances push away worries or doubts that cloud my judgement.”
“But not emotions.”
“Not emotions, no.” Grey eyes cast a far away look, willing for a memory.
He picks at the wood varnish.
“Tell me, is trusting others to be good a crime?” Men and women, wiped of sin and identity. Like a swipe in a puddle of water, waves rippling their faces. Like a latticed window covering for crooks.
“Blind faith is foolish, but it hardly constitutes a crime.”
“Naivety?” A child. Too young, too small. For the weight of the world crashing down.
“No, hope gives life to humans.”
“What good did it ever do? Direct actions produce results, yet hope is lauded for less.”
“Can you wholeheartedly say you've not clung onto hope?”
The man makes an aborted movement. Varnish piles under his fingernails, black like grime and soot. The organ sings then.
“Can you?”
Black pupils stare right through.
“No.”
“Run ◼ ◼ ◼, do not be afraid, and do not look back… The rain will accompany you, and the rain will bless you.”
Hollow words reverberate through his being, a final lesson taught in between fleeting joy and unending sorrow.
“Run ◼ ◼ ◼.” So he ran on wet sand, it slipped between his toes as he struggled to find purchase. He dared not stop to rest. Unwilling to fall under its grainy embrace.
“Do not look back.” So he didn't, gaze trained forward with a single minded focus. He dared not look at the chaos and destruction behind him. Unwilling to face the agony and mutilation of his kind.
“The rain will accompany you.” And it did, making its presence known by the fast drops that landed on his body. It left a reminder in the form of a smattering of bruises upon gaunt skin.
“The rain will bless you.” And it did, its heavy drops blanketing the world in a fog, obscuring the Katican’s vision. His small stature and drab clothing blending with the miserable sky.
He ran and he ran and he ran.
For that was all he knew.
He ran and never looked back.
For he was afraid of death.
He spent countless days hiding in the sands. Between valleys of rocks and overhanging cliffs. Grains of sand and gravel puncture his skin, making home in calcified bones. Hunger a constant companion, thirst abated by drops of rain and morning dew.
His soles are rubbed raw, calloused and bleeding. The scalding heat cauterising open wounds only for scabs to peel come night. A necklace and a pendant clutched tightly in cut palms.
When he is between rocky surfaces, with scorpions and snakes on the prowl, he clasps his hands in prayer. Reverent whispers to a goddess who deemed them unworthy of salvation. One who blessed him yet thinks him a sinner.
He hopes for a contained fire. One that provides rather than takes. He hopes for a rain that blesses crops rather than drown screams. He hopes for water that washes away sweat and grime than blood and tears.
Most of all, he hopes for his family. He hopes for his father to pick him up in his arms. He hopes for his mother to tell him stories. He hopes for his sister to play with him, one last time.
And when the wishes are dashed by bitter reality, by knowledge of impossible miracles, he starts to question.
He questions his existence, a blessing? Then why does he bring nothing but misfortune? A blessing? Then why is his home burned and buried to time? A blessing? Then why is he the only one left?
He questions his fate, is he so terrible to receive a cruel fate? Is he so terrible to be stripped of the love and care and warmth of a home? Is he so terrible to be left for a blood debt and goddess who hardly spared them a glance?
So terrible to be granted a destiny that's fit for those who commit atrocities? In the name of wealth, land and fame?
If so, he's willing to act in the name of wealth, land and fame. All to repay a blood debt.
He will pave a path of atrocity to the next aurora. Until their inevitable reunion.
Sunday is sat on a swing, wind pushing him from behind. His head is turned to the side, a bright grin painted on his face matching the summer sun. He swings back and forth like a pendulum. It swings high, high and higher.
The child's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. All that can be heard are sounds of nature. A stream rushes past rocky river banks, the sizzling sun hitting its surface casting colourful rays on beds of roses. A buzzing bee drinks nectar, only to be startled by chains rubbing against each other. The swing creaks from the weight of a child falling from up high.
“Would you listen to a story?”
Two fledglings swore to travel the skies.
The brother saw the world’s cruelty and had ideals for a peaceful, perfect world. The sister has no such grandeur, she saw the world and wished for harmony.
They drifted paths. The sister spread her wings, soaring through the skies. She became a star to be admired, one that inspired others. The brother stayed, feet stably on the ground. He became a beacon that guided others, one she can come back to.
Then, vivid lilac crashes and burns.
Much like the Charmony Dove she admired so long ago, she fell. Dishevelled grey hair masks a face except haunting green eyes. Shock and pain expressed in two pairs. Copper shatters. Flowers wither. A feather is dropped. A tear is shed.
The festivities cannot stop. Truth hidden in a flimsy veil of order. One sweet bubble popped by obsidian and agate. Replaced by a thicker layer of self-imposed comfort.
A paradise built on sacrifice. One, turned two, became three.
Dominicus exists. A shell of ideas, a wish from 107,336 souls materialised. Yet the mere wish of a brother and a sister to soar remains unfulfilled.
“Tell me, do I deserve to mourn?”
“Have you tried being selfish?”
“...”
“If you don’t then who will?”
He stumbles upon a masked man. Wrinkled body and fraying grey hair hinting at old age. The man spots him, casting a pitying gaze. He's invited aboard. A gondola, he's told. He's never seen one before, grown up in the desert.
'They're used to sail across rivers.’
He's given food and water, meagre they may be. He's given clothes that hang loose on his wiry frame. Warmth seeps in his pores, it brings comfort despite the coarse linen. He thinks he's grateful.
The brief respite grants him enough strength for his plan. A payback using skills and luck only he possesses. It ends before he could even begin.
On grounds not far from his sister's resting place. Unnamed corpses pile in a mountain of gore. The old man mourns for a senseless massacre.
He feels nothing.
The old man buries corpses that should've been his to ruin. An elegy is made to remember them by.
He feels nothing.
They find another mass of bodies, this one he recognizes. Torn, disfigured, or burned he can remember them all. He digs a grave, piecing the corpses best he could.
He feels nothing.
He buries his sister last. A makeshift tomb from sticks and rocks mark her grave. The old man mourns her like the others. It’s both insulting and honouring.
He feels nothing.
When the old man tries writing an elegy, he feels rage. Fury expressed in shouts and cries, snot rushing from his nose and tears streaking down his cheeks. Then—
He feels nothing.
Resentment fizzled out as he grew older. The old man has passed, leaving a gondola and memories on how to mourn. He travels, observing stars dim. A bystander. He composes elegies for desolate worlds. A mourner.
He's held under an aeons gaze. He doesn't bother to know their name. They celebrate when he cries, clapping for his performance. He wishes its grief, he knows its reflex. Still, they celebrate. Thus, he becomes an actor.
Yet, through all his time adrift at the ceaseless universe. Of hundreds of worlds visited and thousand cities mourned. Of multiple stanzas, metaphors and rhymes. Of countless ink spills, broken quills and crumpled parchment. One is left unfinished by feelings he can not, dared not, express. A justice he could not give, robbed from his weak fingers.
He does not mourn them.
He does not deserve to.
He has bore witness to the rise and fall of countless galaxies. As such, he is deeply familiar with the process of mourning. First, a quill and parchment. Second, unique tidbits from the planet. Third, a recreation of the truth. He closes his eyes, mind riding the silent ripples of memoria to its source. A lone drop of water on the ocean.
A man disturbs the surface tension, desire rolling off him in waves. Even deep in a dream, he tethers the planet to his strong beliefs. Beliefs etched in bone, inseparable from his core. If they were to be untangled, he’d lose his footing. Ichor stares him down, willing him to sleep. To dream and indulge in the temptation of agony-free life.
He renounces it.
An amalgam of bronze, gold and flesh answers back, throat pierced by countless thorns. “Would you listen to a story?”
He grants its request.
A collapsing dream fraying at the seams. Voices sing in out of tune keys. But they blend into a beautiful harmony, moving the soul of anyone who hears. Then, the lead singer loses her voice.
The conductor picks up the slack. He guides the choir to his rhythm. Fixes and remoulds the chaos into an unending symphony. Unsettlingly calm and tone flat from lack of intonation.
Glimpses of what could be are presented. A warm hearth. A delicious meal. A complete family. He feels a burning sensation in his chest. It is not kind. Bile rises, searing pain in his eyes blinds reason.
He forcefully wakes.
“Your paradise strips the foundation of being,” he spat.
“I will not let you cover my eyes from the truth, I have lived and will continue to live with the weight of their fallen corpses. They deserve to be remembered.”
“Why do you reject it? Don't you wish for the pain to stop?”
“Then I'll ask you this, why have you not forgotten?”
A loving mother gone too soon. A fledgling bird that flew to its doom. A sister that shone bright like stars but gradually faded in tune.
“I must bear the wishes of souls long since past, surely you understand. I carry this weight like the mask you wear.”
He touches his mask, tracing the raised tear tracks. “‘We rise from ash and return to ash, death is an inescapable fate, and yet we struggle to live.’”
“...”
“I will not glorify pain, nor will I glorify your paradise. You've dug up feelings I've buried in wet sands. Now I see clearly.”
He approaches the amalgam, taking off his mask. Hypnotic eyes lock onto several blinking eyes. Forcibly tearing through the veil of memoria, he slips through the defences.
“The dreamers do not need your pity, I don't need your pity. We do not need your overbearing love. A tree sheltered in a greenhouse cannot withstand the rain, a bird raised in a birdcage cannot fly against the wind.”
“When you're inevitably stretched thin and the dream is worn out, tattered and frayed, who will protect them? The paradise you speak of is carried by a single person, when you're gone, who will step up?”
“I was a son, a brother, a bystander, and a mourner. You were a son, a brother, a bystander and a choir.”
He shakes the man awake.
“If I can be Kakavasha, you can be Sunday.”
The dream has crumbled. Essence returned to sleeping souls. Threads unravelled, untangling to allow people an escape from the web of lies. They fled before anyone awoke.
In the vast galaxy, they sat face to face in a small gondola. Lit candles remain burning. Sunday's eyes fixate on the planet they left behind. The bell chimes.
“Tell me,” he touches the void, “Do I deserve to mourn?”
“Have you tried being selfish?”
“I've been plenty selfish,” he thinks of the souls he trapped in a cage, the obsidian he shattered and the larynx he dug out.
“Then what's a little more?”
Kakavasha’s hand hovers above a flame.
“I've spent decades mourning, but never for the people who allowed me to continue living. I couldn't give them justice, so I felt I didn't deserve to.”
“But?”
“I realised,” the candle flickered, “If I don't then who will?”
“There is no one left that remembers them without prejudice, if I can't honour a blood debt. Then I'll honour them by spreading their truth, I'll compose a hundred elegies, a thousand tales and a million poems.”
Several flames die out, leaving behind smoke. Despite the lack of wind, they float around Kakavasha as if to comfort him. It smells of home.
“So I ask you—if you don't, who will?”