"One of us must say it; the daemon possesses a point." thehalf-elf’s words were thick with bitterness and disgust at his own admission, but as the chorus of denials rose he stood his ground, meeting them each eye to golden eye.
"The hells he does; when e'er has the goats-eyed bastard argued but for his own skin and selfish interest?" another golden eye shook, narrowing angrily, an accusing finger pointing out from the clustered disciples at the innumerable copies of the fallen thing himself. Another voice, identical rose in agreement. "The disciple of Mordigian's memories are plain - he betrayed us, not even standing to defend the Orrery instead hieing back through the chambers above like frightened vermin." A last broke in, smoke tinged with gharsmoss curling upward from a hand rolled cig clutched between his teeth. "By the forgotten tower he looted his own corpse from greed! He would not even stand here but for a bargain struck upon Mort's blood! He speaks but to li-"
"ENOUGH!"
Rook's voice rose, the husked whisper turned to a graveled shout that shook the razor-edge mica, making the reflected worlds dance. It rose and caught the assembled company by surprise and a score upon score of golden eyes turned towards the speaker. Rook in turn looked out, seeing himself reflected in myriad disarray - golden eye'd all: singular disciples forced into sudden commonality; the forgotten and secret memories of a uncounted planes standing fast in union.
If Rook tried he could mark the differences; the shades in cloak and garb, the slipping accents speaking to his early days abroad. He spied a scar upon one reflected face; an angry gash that would have cost him the Eye Klesst had not yet given. He knew the scar, the moment of it's birth - he had avoided it, parried it from his face with but a knifes edge, the wound's twin marking instead his own shoulder. He saw the addicts still clutching to their vices, the smoke of the throng enough to make his senses heady and quick, and he saw those, lacking the glassen ring suspended about his neck. And to his pain he saw those who wore the ring proudly on ungloved hands, and one, one quiet and thoughtful and unscarred doppelganger who wore the marriage mark, the tattooed binding upon his wrist and curling across his neck and be-ringed ear. The mark of matrimony from the Bern Wood: and he knew the name engraved in fluid script upon his hand without looking.
A life not taken.
Rooks clustered in kind, a conclave of the foolish chosen while his comrades found their own doubles, meeting themselves across the worlds - a hundred realities collapsed down to a single shared point of being. The Thufarks tumbled and sparred and regaled each other with their travels, while Alexii stood in regimented array a company strong, guarding an entire generation of young: J'Nan held huddled conclaves in the shadows, a thieves guild in the making. The Jaydens scribed their stories, swapping texts and inks and worship while the magelings waited, debating the magical properties of the cavern they stood within. Even Mort stood in company, Jackal headed titans mingling with flaxen tress’d warriors, recalling and remembering the forgotten fanes within Zul Bai Zhar.
Only the shadows of Arykin did not seek solace and comfort of their own kind; some innate wariness driving them apart as they cut through the crowd - ever watching, every waiting, ever alone.
An army of the planes, charged to end a god.
But how? The planning, the votes had become contentious; each member forced to corral and speak the minds of scores of similar but yet un-identical lives. They were forced to convince themselves before they convinced each other and two hours in the stalemate continued. It had come down to the Rooks upon one side, Arykin upon the other, backed increasingly by the Alexii and a slow swelling support of the J'Nans as the defensive posture of the plan became clear. In the end it was Thufark who stood between the conflict, and who had pointed out rightly that both sides were right to their purpose but it was the purpose itself that was the question. And with that the Disciples of Klesst had retreated for one final discussion, to try and muster some final argument for what must be done.
Rook's throat went dry, and he swallowed as he stepped forward beneath his brethrens gaze.
"We stand here Sons of Kinrai all, scions and guardians of Rein Manu, the Waiting One - Klesst guides us all. So when I speak know that I acknowledge this freely, and that I claim no stewardship above the rest of you in this purpose."
"We have two tasks before us, both divinely commanded by She we Serve - we must risk, we must dare the fall 'ere we fly. We must strike to the heart of Perimal and end that which is begun: we must do this at the cost of our lives, of our hearts and of our worlds. It is what the Goddess has offered us, and when The Goddess extends you her hand, you take it, no matter that which is contained within!" there is a small chorus of agreement, a rising nod as their own words come back to them, remembered things made once more new.
Rook turned, striding as he met the gaze of each and every golden eye reflecting Klesst’s glory. He turned and he moved with the purpose of a man possessed.
"But so too must we remember; we stand at an ending of the worlds, at a precipice beyond which those that pass shall not return. We have stood upon other shores, faced other darknesses and were Remembered. So must we now. Past that astral curtain we take with us not merely ourselves but our memories; the memories of races gone and secrets vanished. With our passing so do they."
"We must at once bear witness and we must also dare, Klesst demands both." he breathes, deep, the words ash in his mouth however true they may be. "And so help me brothers Arykin has granted us that way."
"We who Witness, We who Remember shall remain to guard the passage and to seal the fissures between the worlds - this defense will as the Daemon says provide both distraction and at least some small measure of success - even should one fall, at least one shall succeed, and one world, one plane shall be safe from the Darkling's predations. And with them the memories of us, of Klesst entire."
"And then there shall be the One who Falls."
Rook turned, raising a hand to point to his mirror across the hall; the same as he in ever aspect save the Golden Eye. The perfect reflection; a golden right eye meeting a golden left eye, gaze steady and unbroken.
"You are the One who Falls, and you will be the One who Flies."
"T'was your memories that called us here; t'was your steps that first found the way through the leeching glow of the tunnels and the tainted haze of the air seeping between the worlds. You felt first the collapse of it all, your reality falling into the others; the other-worldly slick upon your skin as you lead them down to the shattered crevasse and Arykin’s remains amidst the Darkling's horde. And it was you that first delved the Cavern to find the ruined heart between these mica planes and mirrors."
"T'was your mind that first remembered the future; the Orrery ruined and smoking, and it was your remembrance that called your own death to your mind, showing what would soon be. And it was you who showed us the way across the worlds."
"You are the one Who shall Fall. You are the One who Flies. It is you and yours who shall venture into the lands of cursed ice and stasis, and it is you who shall kill Perimal."
"Go; we shall Remember you unto Her."
***
The conclave had broken, three score Rooks and ten scattering to five score parties, alternatively surrendering or convincing their fellows of the majority opinion. Easy enough as in truth Rook had been one of the primary holdouts. Still, a half-hundred voices choking upon the words "Arykin was right" and instead deferring in sense to Thufark or the Alexii made a particular din he would not wish to repeat. The plan had been set, the first party - party prime, as one of the lesser wags had called it - was to perform the assassination while the others closed the roads behind them. Or tried to - starting the Orrery and then holding the line as the Blue Women and the Machine Things came at them in waves …
Even the path back to the Crescent Lands the prime ones knew. There would be no return.
Rook stood, the glass ring of Larmia heavy in his hands, the memories of her and of Tsan and the girl, the first girl so many aching years before. He stood before the mirror, remembering the leagues travelled, the lonely days in the Fallen Lands and the bewildering chaos of the Edge of the World. Mort loomed, monstrous and silent in the reflection, jackal-headed jaws chewing absently on upon her own lips; the heavy paw lands upon his should, a human gesture from an inhuman friend that broke Rook's reverie. He tucked the glassen ring back beneath the cloak of the Corman first worn so many years ago and smiled wearily up at the creature. Servants, both of them, in their own way. Even Arykin, if it came to that - Rook smiled.
Mort, Arykin, Rook.
He speaks once, slow, smoking a stolen cigarette from one of his fellows - a final parting gift, far better than the magical wealth handed over to his companions. One last vice before the end.
"I'm glad it's us, old friend." the smoke curls, tracing half remembered lines in the air; mirrored masks and risen towers and silver headed ghouls …
"Forgive me for it, but I am glad, in the end, that it falls to us."
