I am burning pages, in dreaming. Pages that seek to pass as lost, shattered truth. I rarely burn written things, regardless of their abhorrence to me, but I’m particularly terrified on this night. A silver dish awaits me in my candle-lit cell, standing on legs of iron. Tapers and wick sit beside. I can smell the sickness of the burning paper and the sleeping horrors therein. Many times I’ve wished I was dead, or forgotten, or mere figment. Tonight is one of those times. I sense movement at the threshold of my cell and immediately my gaze is taken there. I quickly look away and squeeze my eyes shut. The wraith in the doorway has been fashioned to appear as a headless child, dressed in dark linen. No more than ten or eleven years old. No wound at the neck, just absence. I swallow my disgust and force myself to look again. The headless wraith carries a lantern of burning oil in one hand. In the other an unrecognisable chunk of meat is clutched in a bloodied, dripping fist.
“You’re hideous,” I mutter plainly, furious that an image of a child is being desecrated in this way. But I expect nothing less from this thing’s mistress.
Its voice is also imitative, but there is a resigned sophistication in its odd, flat tone. I am designed to unsettle, indeed. Are you to join her, traveller? She says you must come of your own accord.
I peer into the silver dish where the pages burn, thinking of my youth, and Amma, and the shining girl.
“That’s why I’m here,” I tell it quietly, focusing on the dancing flames in the dish.
Might I ask a question? Am I at this moment in esteemed company? Mistress likes to keep things from me, you see. I mean to say, are you in fact the shrieking Moth-King? The holy plague of legend? Is this with whom I speak?
"No." Then perhaps the one the old Celts call Taranis? He of the bright knives? I've heard it said the kissed is a thing of strange rains.
I force myself to glance at the headless abomination. "No, wraith, I’m not."
It comes forward a few steps, lifting the burning lantern a little higher, clutching the bleeding chunk of meat in its other hand. Spots of crimson are falling, tainting the floor of my cell. The wraith seems almost pitiable in that moment but I force away the notion. These are places and things of deception, always.
Forgive me, but you are Paul the Kistori, are you not? The poet of rivers and midnight suns? The image-maker from London?
"I suppose so.”
What are you exactly, if I might be so bold? A halfling of some sort? I ask because scant few of mortal union venture this far.
I try to keep my eyes upon the burning pages in the corner of my cell, rather than the desecration in the doorway. "Is it even your place to ask these things, wraith?"
I can feel it smiling. Forgive me, traveller.
“Enough,” I say quietly, and finally set my eyes upon the awful image of the headless wraith. I know it can feel my fear, my nausea. Every fibre of my being wants to repel from the image it’s showing me. I can sense its delight in my horror, but I try to pace myself. These realms are utterly exhausting, and I don’t want to find myself emotionally spent before I’m even at the table of the one who summoned me.
Are we now to find the table of my mistress?
“Yes.”
The lantern of burning oil is lifted to its highest. Away with us then, traveller.
I take a deep, careful breath and follow the abomination out into the dark.
We pass through many black passages, with only the sickly glow of the wraith’s lantern to lead our way. Thankfully it doesn’t speak again. In these darkest spaces of dreaming I’m often struck by my own apparent insanity. Few mortal men would dare these things even if they could. Some do succeed though, seeking favour like fools, hoping to bind or charm entities utterly beyond their comprehension. Most of them don’t return with their minds or their bodies intact. As we navigate these passages I wonder if I’m really no different from those other foolish, broken travellers.
At last we arrive at an open causeway beneath a coastal sky of indigo and crimson and black. The air is acrid. All around us is the vast, churning edge of a dark sea. The causeway leads to a massive shadowed citadel of looming towers and turrets. I only have a few moments to glance before I’m led inside again.
Finally, I’m ushered into a great hall of stone and high windows. Wall-braces hold burning torches, bathing the huge space in soft, swimming firelight. Banners and tapestries are hung; strange art of frighteningly exquisite detail. It is always unsettling to find richness of thread in realms like these.
Anachronistically, in the centre of the hall stands a sleek circle of steel and tempered glass. A modern office table. The shape sitting alone at the table appears pale as milk, like a naked ghost even in the burning torchlight. Immediately I feel the first spasm of unease in my gut, the tension gathering in my chest.
I hate this creature so much, yet here I am again.
Silently she beckons me, casual, informal, like an old friend. I’ve known her most of my life. As a child she was there, waiting in the background. As a boy she made herself officially known to me. Now, as a man, she sits naked at the table, wearing a visage that isn’t her own just to torment me.
At my side the headless wraith steps backward into hidden darkness and is gone.
I’m alone in the great hall with the pale ghost. As I approach the table I see that my first impression was correct. A slender naked woman in her mid-twenties. Her skin and her hair are the same inhuman shade of milk-white. The hair is very long, cut in a blunt fringe across her forehead, and tresses cover her breasts in a strange display of false modesty. She sits with complete poise in a leather office chair, legs crossed beneath the glass table top. I would smile if I wasn’t so disturbed by her appearance. Though she is naked, and of unearthly complexion – her face and her form is that of the shining girl from my youth. The thing before me is brazenly wearing the face of my first love.
She stares at me with the same limpid eyes I fell for as a boy, her expression ferocious but unreadable. Finally she gestures at the empty leather chair on my side of the circle. As I sit down I try to hold her gaze for a moment. She registers my silent disgust at the shape she’s chosen to take.
“I’m surprised you came, Paul.”
Even her voice is a perfect imitation of my maiden. I’m barely able to hold back a sneer. “What fucking choice do I have, Kiskuh? What choice have you ever really given me?”
“We all have a choice, especially those of the high-born.”
I peer at her, at the frightening intensity behind those beautiful blue eyes. “It sickens me that you do this. That you steal her form like this. But I guess that’s the idea, right? To sicken me, and everything. And everyone.”
The pale demoness narrows her eyes a little. A hint of a smile. As if reading my mind, she says, “This has nothing to do with making you sick, Paul. It’s to make a point. A very valid point, I think. But I’m not a demon. You often call me by that term, but I’ve never referred to myself as such a thing.”
I almost laugh at her words. “You’re the most demonic thing I’ve ever fucking witnessed, Kiskuh. You sent a mockery of a headless child to bring me here. You steal the face of my beloved Asha. You exude sickness from every pore. It’s hysterical that you would even bother trying to convince me otherwise.”
In this great hall, lit by fires, she stares blankly at me.
“There was a time, high-born, when I opened my thighs to you like the eye of all storms. And you came, willingly. We writhed and rutted in the flames, for centuries. Destroyers and vipers and the broken teeth of giants. I was elixir to you then, not poison. I must admit, it does sting a little; this digital piety you’ve found. That you would push me away so vehemently now.”
I shake my head to cover how unsettled I am. “Lies, demon. This is nothing but lies.”
“But they’re not lies, are they? I know you’re scared, Paul. I’d be terrified too, if I were dreaming’s last true scribe.”
“You lied to me when I was a boy and you’re lying to me now.”
The pale thing at the table seems genuinely offended. “But I didn’t lie, Paul. I may have hurt you, and terrified you, but I never lied.”
My teeth clench and I force myself to stare at her again. Quietly I say, “You tried to murder my little sister. She was only eight years old.”
“I wasn’t trying to murder her. I was trying to steal her away. You know that.”
I close my eyes and attempt a deep, measured breath. “I fucking hate you, Kiskuh. I will always hate you.”
“You don’t hate me, brother. You love me. And it's killing you inside.”
My eyes snap open and I immediately lean forward across the table. “Listen to me, you sick little bitch. One day, in the future, in this world or another, I’m going to slit your throat, and drink your blood. On that day I’ll show you the kind of love I have for you. Do you hear me? I’m not your brother. I’m your enemy, eternal.”
For the first time since my arrival the pale demoness laughs openly; an expression of mock surprise. “Oh, Paul. Nobody needs to drink anyone’s blood. We’re family, after all.”
“Fuck you,” I declare bitterly, and press myself back into my seat.
But this pale creature has a frightening way of consistently regaining my attention. I find myself staring once more at this entity hiding behind the image of a girl I dearly love. Her amusement fades and eventually she fixes me with a look of utter seriousness.
“Fuck me? If only, Paul. But I suppose it can never be as it was. Even though your heart still knows me.”
“I don’t know you. I have no idea who or what you really are. All I know are the things you’ve told me.” Her eyes enthrall me, despite my caution.
“You know exactly who I am, dear brother. I am Kiskuh of Vort’eth. K’anna of Viir. Or, in your mortal tongue, she of the Mari’gena. Daughter of Rain and Shrieking Sea.”
“Just stop,” I plead quietly, but I know she never will.
“We’re both children of rain, Oma’turi. By her falling seed are we made known. The Mother we share. Don’t you understand that you’ve found an audience with the Last Witch of Eth’Vena?”
Her irises seem to glint like blue flames as she speaks. I can feel the gravity in her breast. I can’t turn away.
“I’m no mere chivalric demoness, Paul. Nor the red-robed whore of your crucified sky-king. I am my own counsel, and my own fey. You can’t run from the old ways. Shall I speak some truth to you now? Shall I dare? Who was he that walked upon the holy mountain of blessed augur? I’ll tell you. It was T’alis, the night-bard. The Moth-King, returning. Druid, poet, sorceror. M’ithriin of all Albion.”
Silence now, in the fire-lit hall. She lets her words hang with portent in the air.
I’m completely alone with the demoness in this citadel of dark dreaming. A citadel with no name. She smiles. Not ghastly or mocking. Almost sweet.
“The citadel isn’t nameless, Paul. This is Thiint’aja, as it was or might have been. Val Perilleux, as your romances call it. And I’m not a demon. At least, not in the Christian sense. Every spirit in the endless waters is a blending of both light and dark. The Mari’gena was keeper of those waters before the notion of shore was even born. Before men gave names to the rising lands. You grasp storytelling better than any mortal known, don’t you? Isn’t that why the lake breaks herself for you, and why the well keeps you in its throat?”
“I’m not a god, or a king, or sorcerer. I’m just a failed writer. I get people drunk for a living.”
A thin smile on her lips. “Indeed. But I regret to inform you, Paul, that all writers are gods and kings and sorcerers. And you are so very high among those ranks, whether you like it or not.”
“Why did you ask me here, Kiskuh? What do you really want? To drive me mad? Congratulations. You’re officially the queen of everything. Can I go now?”
She waits a beat before responding.
“I am with child, my king. As the legends claim. As the stories tell and retell. That’s why I summoned you here.”
I feel the dread beginning to gather in the pit of my stomach. My mouth is suddenly dry. “A child?”
She tilts her head as she regards me, and nods. There is a feral quality behind those eyes now. At last I’m reminded of the demonic night-wraith from my youth. A Norse witch of the polar lights, she claimed back then. A life lived as an acolyte of Lussi and the rebel Kiir. Corrupted by a lust for power. The older, fallen sister of my true shining maiden. Just one of our many shared lives, she told me as a boy.
“I am my sister,” she intones dangerously now. “I am my king. And I assure you both, I am carrying a child. Imagine the turn of the world, and the turn of the dragon’s throne, once he is finally come.” I gaze at the pale creature sitting before me at the table. She smiles again. This time she doesn’t disguise her pleasure. “Surely you were expecting this, Paul? You know the legends. I’ve been reading your poetry and watching your image-making. You’ve sensed my presence for a while now.”
I shake my head, terrified. “I’m not afraid of you, whoever you are. And I’m not afraid of whatever you’re carrying.”
“Who’s the liar now?”
“Just stop,” I beg her. “Please. Send me back. I can’t listen to another word of this madness.”
“Perhaps I am mad, my Kistori. Or maybe just something beyond your comprehension. But haven’t you felt him growing? In the chaos? In the ash, and the tainted winds?”
I shake my head again. “I won’t let you glamourize this sickness. Pretending revolution to gain power over the lost and the weak. You’re full of shit, Kiskuh. Like every warlord and terrorist that ever was.”
She sneers openly at my words.
“Terrorist? Seriously? The Church of the Pale Slain – your Cult of Roma – laid waste to virtually everything that was good and true of the old world. Dark priests of your supposedly benevolent Christ, dimming the waters of the Mari’gena with innocent blood. And yet, because men have grown to fear the divine cunt of woman I’m now recast as usurper? As insurrectionist? What a fucking travesty. I healed your wounds, Paul, at the great battle of the broken key. Is that what demons do? Do they tend the sick as I did? I was the one who laid you in the balm of Ava’s dreaming waters. No one else.” There is a different kind of wildness in her eyes now. “I was with you in the end, when you cried for our Mother like a child. I held you. Not Asha, nor Kara or Mira, but me. Remember that, high-born.”
I force myself to hold her wild gaze as newfound rage begins to gather in my depths. I think of my awful, broken childhood. Sixteen years old. The streets on fire. A distorted female shape cloaked in raven-feathers, commanding lesser wraiths across the rooftops. Her splitting mouth full of teeth like knives of bone. Rachel screaming in horror, as this nightmarish thing crawled across the ceiling above her.
It takes all the control I have not to lunge across the table now.
“You have no fucking shame,” I growl at her. “Do you? You who send the images of headless children to summon me. You, who steals the face and the voice of my Asha. You tormented me, Kiskuh. You tortured me. I was just a child, and you almost fucking killed me. You, and your sick acolytes. I know exactly who you are. You’re the monster who tried to kidnap my little sister. But you failed, spectacularly. You don’t give a shit about endless waters, or pagan blood, or the struggles of women. Things like you don’t really give a damn about anything. You can’t hide. I can still see you behind those pretty eyes. You’re very, very sick, and you enjoy it. Regardless of whoever or whatever you used to be.”
The fierceness of my words seems to hang like static in the air. Neither of us speaks for a long while, but I hold her in the truth of my gaze. I feel a little braver now, and for a moment I imagine that my shining maiden is at my shoulder, urging me forward, gifting me strength.
Finally the pale demoness speaks again. “This little bright one. Our beloved Asha. She draws near, doesn’t she? I sense it too. But do you really think you can protect her from me? Her own sister? I’m literally wearing her skin as we speak.”
“Asha’s protected,” I say quietly, and nothing more.
I can see that my strength has wounded this ghost at the table. She bristles at my recognition of this fact.
“Asha is done with the high-born. You know that all too well. She chooses Northmen still, and horsemen besides. Just as it was when I stood naked in the night beneath the shimmering lights of the Val’Kiir. And she ran from the true sorcery of her sister. To the spear of the salt-waters. Du Lac. Nothing really changes, Kashi, does it? From king to cuckold with such swiftness. It must feel like such a thorn in your side...”
I force a smile at her words, in an attempt to safeguard my strength. I can sense her desperation. “You’re afraid of me, Kiskuh. You’ve always been afraid of me. Maybe you are who you say you are. Maybe I am too. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Things change. I’m walking my own path now.”
She shrugs, nonchalant, as though my words don’t cut her. But I can see that they do.
“I never lied to you, Paul. I am the Mori’gena. Daughter of Rain. Healer, sister. Lover. And I am indeed with child. Try to run from your part in that, if you must. But even a god can only run so far. The child is coming, for theurgy and throne. You cannot burn those pages, hard as you try.” Her gaze darkens. A faint smile touches her lips. “Long ago, in the night, you came upon me, whispering your oldest names. Just as your shining one came upon you, whispering hers. Only I am not so docile, Aesma.”
Immediately I avert my gaze at the sound of that name, peering down at my hands again.
“Yes, Paul, I know who you really are. Beyond the allusions and indulgences of your poetry. I still recall the magnificent lust with which you graced me. Like a king of the shining and the shade. When you taught me those darker magics of the Fall. Folding space and time itself. Stealing memories, reshaping the very tapestries of creation.”
“Please, Mori’gen. Stop.”
But there is genuine pain in her expression now, and I can feel it. “No, Paul. You are going to listen to me this time. The light of my sex is become a dark star since Aesma’s delicate touch. Nothing else compares. Tell me, does Albion’s highest-born disavow his own shadow now? His own half-sister? If shadows are the only place left for this Last Witch of Eth’Vena, then so be it. But don’t you ever fucking pretend that you didn’t truly love me once. Because you did, and I know some part of you still remembers my heart.”
I can only stare at the furious, wounded girl at the table. The anguish within is all too genuine.
For a little while I’m speechless. I feel as naked as she is. Raw, quivering. She peers expectantly at me, her eyes full of tears now. I swallow and look away in shock. When I’m finally able to speak it’s almost a whisper.
“That was a long time ago, Mori’gen. Fictions. Stories. Tales that never were. Please don’t tear my entire life apart just for telling stories…”
For the first time at this table she seems truly vulnerable, and tired. “Everything we are is story, my kiss. Everything. The truest depths of spirits and mortals alike. The dreaming waters are endless. They really are.”
“I know,” I admit quietly.
For a while she is pensive. The space between us seems to settle a little. At last she gestures at her stolen nakedness. “You wonder why I wear this face, Oma’turi. But you’ve utterly replaced me with this thing of light. Replaced me with my own lost sister. The Fair One.”
“Because I love her. I always will.”
“It still hurts. The way you look at her. I suppose we really are the stuff of legend, no matter how we resist.”
I have tears in my eyes now too. I feel exhausted. “None of this changes the fact that you tortured me, you know. Or that you tried to steal Rachel from this world. It doesn’t change the fact that I hate you. Even if I loved you, once upon a time.”
“I know.”
“Mori’gen, please. Just tell me the truth. Are you ever going to stop this?”
She can’t bear to look at me anymore. “I am sorry, Paul. For what I did to you. I miss you. But I’m just too broken now, and so angry. I don’t think I can stop what’s growing inside of me. I don’t think either of us can.”
“Then send me back, my love. We have nothing left to discuss.”
She closes her eyes, then brings her hands together with the force of a thunderclap. I am wrenched from my seat with such violence that the breath is torn from my lungs. From the citadel of Thiint’aja into a maelstrom of darkness and stars – all the way down into the first gasped shock of waking consciousness.