Chapter 23
XXIII
It all starts with one drop.
Amidst a puddle of blood filled with countless others, one single drop wants to be different. Needs to do different.
It chooses the path to the black maw calling to it in the distance.
It drags and crawls.
Rolls and slithers.
Wields the effort of a lifetime to fulfil its most desperate need.
The blackness calls to it like the sweetest song.
Like a piper.
It pushes through a sea of its peers. They laugh and jeer as it passes, ridiculing its efforts.
But the drop doesn’t listen. The drop doesn’t look.
There is only one goal, only one way. And it leads through a cacophony of drums.
Time stretches to eternity and back. An instant passes, and suddenly, it is there.
The milky path into the maw offers itself to the drop like the softest embrace. It follows it gladly, crawling higher and higher until it stands at the edge.
“Come here, my child,” the dark pit coos. “Come and join me forever.”
The laughter of its peers turns to deathly screams.
“No! Stay with us. Do not succumb to the call of the darkness,” they shout.
But the drop doesn’t care—doesn’t listen.
The drop longs to dissolve into the nothingness, to become one with the nothingness. So it diverts from the silken path and drops into the sleepless depths below.
The darkness is not absence but, rather, abundance.
Strange winding roads. Abandoned nooks. Comforting beds.
Each and every one of them calls to the drop. Their sweet voices beckon it to join them in every crevice. It feels their pull and yields with a deep sigh.
A cave drowning in water falling into the tightest paths, sucks it further, deeper.
With unimaginable speeds, it passes from limb to limb, dipping them in molten gold.
Like a fire, it spreads through the branches, from leaf to leaf, jumping over distances too far to comprehend. Every crevice calls to it.
Come here, my child, come here. You are loved; you are wanted.
It follows the voices faster and faster. Each time, it loses a piece of its memory.
Disintegration is its deepest desire: to collect the love and become one with the beckoning calls.
But one is louder than the others.
Stranger than the others.
A broken song rhythmical like a stuttering heart. The drop is in awe of its size and beauty. It offers itself in relief.
Take me, darling. Remake me.
Long, thin tendrils devour it swiftly, spreading it over every surface.
Absorbing it.
The drop is no more.
All is still, for one eternity, and then another.
But then—what do I hear?
The sounds of distant waves? The rustling of leaves?
It’s greedy now, demanding more.
Insatiable.
Sucking and pulling at everything it can grasp. The squelching is so deafening, it threatens to crack the bark into infinite pieces. Brick by brick, it rebuilds itself until it’s an impenetrable fortress.
Nothing can break it now.
Nothing can penetrate anymore.
Golden glow is birthed like a dying star.
The softest moaning echoes through the chamber like an angelic choir. The light pushes into the darkest corners.
Behold.
Behold the wonders of our alchemy.
The cracking of shells.
The breaking of twigs.
Mending and soothing themselves, shouting the secrets of existence. The arches erect themselves into arcs-boutants. Air fills its space with the most ragged exhale, the sounds of a deafening storm. Torrential waters fill its place. Blood and air and power fight each other for dominion.
But the power prevails as it must always prevail.
Screams of love and sorrow come from every cell of its being.
The giant sees nothing.
Knows nothing.
Only we are still here. We will always prevail.
Come, my child, join us in allegory.
If we cry it, it might come. But if we whisper it, it will happen.
The body dies.
Once.
Twice.
Many times over.
It lies there, trapped, feeling itself breaking and reforming itself again and again.
The heart wants to sing but needs the music to feed it.
The lungs want to dance but need the bricks to build it.
Every single bone cries in torment.
Rocks, then sand, then glass, and then rocks again.
Unbreakable?
No.
Mortal.
The organs fade into ashes. Only small piles remain, blown away by the wind.
Every crevice is freed from the burden of blood.
But what is there in its stead? A seed?
A golden grain. Still unformed. Raw.
It grows slowly at first. But the seed rejoices, calling to its power. It swells and gloats until it trickles—until it streams.
The ichor.
The stream turns into a river, an ocean of time and torment inundating every fissure.
The ichor remembers the first breath, the last scream.
It sees all. It knows all.
Bones break like crushed ice in summertime.
Scraping and dry.
Gilded, resplendent, it’s soothed with a gentle caress.
Ribs pierce breathless lungs into the tallest cathedral, built to rejoice in the keys to creation.
Whispered lies and mumbled truths fill it until it bursts.
Once the breath escapes, the heart starts to sing its repetitive song. But not the song of life. No. Only of death.
Flesh decays like forgotten maggots. Muscles dissolve into mud and bones. The skin forgets itself, and air is all that remains. But the ichor prevails, as it always prevails.
Pushing itself through the forgotten roads.
Come to me, my love, it proclaims from the highest peaks to the deepest depths.
The body answers the call. The ichor remembers and remembers it all.
Flesh twists and turns until the muscles cry out in ecstasy. They wrap themselves around each root, each scar, each wound, until they disappear into the darkness.
Fire sears through every limb, trying to remember what once was. Screaming fills the void, reciting what could have been.
Ashen organs reform once again, similes of themselves carved by the masters of the unruly children. Smooth marble splinters until it’s whole, then smooths itself over the burning remains.
The flesh is there.
The ichor is there.
But only one thing remains untouched.
What of the soul when the body suffers?
Who will call to it?
The memories of hell are fresh in their eyes.
Why shall he return into this decayed form?
There is no more home; there is only the darkness of the afterlife. But the seed of power is still there.
Withered and untouched.
Who will call to it?
It cries for the ichor, and the ichor soothes it. The flesh mends itself, and the heart soothes it. But the soul doesn’t listen, doesn’t hear the call.
But the power feels it all, knows it all.
Hear the quiet song whispered in between the spires.
Sing to me, it pleads. Sing to me once more.
Awaken, my love.
Awaken.
My Love.