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The bridge collapses and is swept away into the river the moment Randolph steps onto the opposite bank. A cold wind tugs and pushes his cloak around his body and away from his legs. It stirs up the ashes and dirt on the ground – fortunately his clothes are tucked in enough that it doesn’t get into his legs or under his shirt. But it does fly into his mouth, bitter and crunchy and dry, and up towards his eyes under his glasses. He’d been crying before he came to the ruins.
That’s what it looks like. A field of ancient ruins that stretch towards a sickly orange sky, the metal frames of the buildings twisted and half melted while what once had been stone towers lie in piles that block roads and cover entrances to what had once been an underground transit system, surrounded by strange, foul smelling ash. The air smells like ozone and tastes like dust. Millennia of weather and abandonment had done this to several cities across the Lengian plateaus, but the city at the edge of Ilek-Vad’s territories had only days ago been entirely structurally sound.
He told his guards and his escorts that he wished to come alone. Even when he was told what – no, who had been the cause of this destruction, he insisted on riding out on his own zebra and tying her at the nearest tree. When the straggling guards followed in the shadows, he waited to confront them and send them back.
“There were no survivors, your majesty.”
“That’s why I’m going alone.”
“It’s still there-”
“I know.”
And with suspicious glances and confused whispers, they let their king continue on to Shaxu’vad in peace. And now he stands in a flattened pile of wood in the center of Shaxu’vad. It takes Randolph a moment, but he notices that it’s not a wood plaza like he thought. It’s a building, thrust into the earth and thin like paper from some force.
Maybe he left already, was Randolph’s first thought. What good would it do to stand around in these ruins with nobody to torment? He knows what monster destroyed this town, he knows how it would rather lie in fragrant gardens with pretty manservants in translucent silks and sweet white wine being offered. And then Randolph’s heart jumps for a moment – the intelligence could have been wrong. The Crawling Chaos is far from the only volatile being in the Dreamlands, as Randolph knows from experience, and he pictures how any Great One or over powerful human could do this. In his mind, he sees any being but Nyarlathotep, razing this city to the ground in seconds then flying off. Maybe an enemy of Ilek-Vad – a servant of the Unspeakable One, or a bitter Great One with a long memory. When Randolph finds Nyarlathotep, he’ll be offended that Randolph thought he would spend so much time on such a boring little city.
Which Randolph knows is ridiculous. The last person heard from the city had spoken specifically of the Crawling Chaos. However desperately he’d like this to be a case of mistaken identity, he can’t fall into delusion.
A warmer, softer wind blows, and Randolph turns towards a figure that’s been thrown together haphazardly from the rubble. The air around it is sweeter – but not entirely fresher, for the sweetness is a perfume that clings as a mask to dense ozone. The sky fades from its ugly orange to a soft pink over the apex of the tower, and broken glass glitters in a sourceless light. The entrance is a curtain of floating dust. “It’s me,” says Randolph as he approaches.
I know.
Randolph steps through the dust. The same colorful shards of glass litter the floor, and he’s glad for his boots. Stupid, hopeful, idealistic, fool. They crunch under his footsteps and slice at the soles of his shoes. Must be nice to just float over the sharp floor without any care.
But at least there’s no blood on the ground. Nobody else had to see what was created for – Randolph doesn’t even know why Nyarlathotep might build this instead of leaving. He wonders if people saw the storm of glass and stone and metal as it tore down the buildings and formed the turret jutting perversely from the ground. He passes black, bubbling glass along the walls that reflect and distort his face.
As he reaches higher levels in the turret, the glass floor subsides. It must have been too much effort to bring up all the broken glass – or maybe there simply wasn’t enough. Now it’s the same polished reflection as the wall. Despite the dirt and ash on Randolph’s shoes, the foot prints bubble and dissolve. He pictures that happening to a human who crawled passed the glass to ask why this happened. When the thought makes him vomit, the vomit dissolves with the same soft hiss.
Stolen, ripped silks with more shattered glass hanging from them cover a room near the top. Randolph stops and raises his voice, held steady from years of practice. “I can’t walk through this,” he says. It parts for him.
He’s drinking wine from a charred bottle and lying on a melted metal chaise lounge. Randolph was expecting a stranger, more revolting form, but he’s the same young human, half clad and painted with glitter. Nyarlathotep beckons for him; Randolph doesn’t move from the entryway.
“I was going to leave, but I rarely come to Ilek-Vad, so I decided I’d wait for you,” lilts Nyarlathotep. When it becomes apparent Randolph won’t join him, he rises and lifts an arm towards him. Randolph grabs the wrist and lowers it.
“No survivors.”
“That’s a lie! I listened to what you said the last time. I left the city open to most of them.” He frees his wrist and gestures aimlessly. “I’m sure some of them managed to get out before I got bored.”
“Why didn’t you just leave it?”
Nyarlathotep laughs and shakes his head. “Leave it? I was gravely insulted, Randolph Carter. It was just retribution, really.” When Randolph seems unmoved by his plight, the smiling lips curve downwards into a pout, and the eyes glitter. Again, Randolph can’t discern where any light would be coming from. “They called me a fake, Randolph. It hurt, it really did.” He sniffs, but the kohl under his eyes is unsmudged.
“I really don’t think you would be that affected by the words of some random human.”
“It was completely disrespectful, I just didn’t know what to do-”
“Will you stop it?”
Randolph shoves him back, and Nyarlathotep looks shocked. It’s sickening to think – that sympathy and comfort were honestly what Nyarlathotep had been expecting after his explanation. “Will you at least tell me that you destroyed the city because you wanted to? The words of some insignificant little human are a convenient excuse, but I know you’re not really upset by them.”
“But that’s why they were ups-”
“So in that case, you were looking for an excuse to get upset so you could flaunt your power and throw a city destroying tantrum. At least pure sadism wouldn’t be so pathetic.”
Nyarlathotep turns away. The sniffing and sad looks have stopped; his hand curls tighter around the bottle. “What’s stopping me from doing the same to you, Randolph Carter?” he asks, in a cooler, more measured voice.
“Do it.”
His head snaps towards him. Randolph repeats himself. “Do it. Kill me, or torture me, or whatever you did to this city of innocent people – people I’m responsible for. You’re sadistic and looking for something to destroy, so I’m giving you something to destroy. Do it, Nyarlathotep.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying-”
“I do, and I’m providing full and informed consent.”
They meet eyes. There’s nothing in Nyarlathotep’s, and Randolph has grown more and more comfortable to look into them with an unchanged face. “But you don’t want to destroy me,” Randolph says.
“No, I like having you around.” Again, the adorned arm raises towards Randolph’s face to stroke his cheek. Randolph smacks the hand away, harder this time.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I’m sorry you’re upset about Shaxu’vad.” It’s said after a drawn out sigh, as if Nyarlathotep had been searching desperately for the words to say.
“Don’t say you’re sorry, either!”
“But I am! I didn’t want you to get this upset at me about it.”
“Then how, exactly, were you expecting me to respond?”
“I was going to clear the rubble and the skies. I’ll even help with rebuilding and make sure things go smoothly. You won’t have to worry about another project.” His voice is back at the higher pitched, sweet whine that makes Randolph’s ears twitch and his thoughts slow. “I’ll make everything easy for you.”
The proposition is nice. Randolph wants to take it, to say that he found an anonymous sponsor, or that he somehow talked the Crawling Chaos into helping him. Instead, he shakes his head. “It’s not about how hard it’s going to be to rebuild. And seeing as I let all of… this happen, the least I can do is take on the responsibility myself.” He sits at the edge of the chaise lounge and buries his face in his hands. “I guess it’s just something you won’t understand.”
“What won’t I understand?” The voice is eager. Eager to learn and to understand and to prove that there’s no lack of mental facilities. Randolph looks to where Nyarlathotep was, but it turns out Nyarlathotep is behind him, pushing his head into his shoulder.
“That everyone in the city did matter to me. I failed… sixty-thousand individual people, with individual lives and perspectives and experiences. And even if it hadn’t been my fault, it’s still sickening that this would happen.”
“You would have no way of knowing each and every one of those people. Besides, some of them got out.”
“How many?”
“How would I know?”
Randolph still feels ill. At this point, his stomach is empty. He drapes an arm over Nyarlathotep and looks down at the face – stolen and perverted years ago from some human who probably thought he’d never become anything. Randolph wonders what the original owner of the body might do if he knew what was to happen to it. When he thinks about sweet words in a soft bed and how much he wants to kiss the god before him, Randolph dry heaves.
“Some of them got out,” repeats Nyarlathotep.