Weaving - A Gap In Reality

This place seemed suitable. A jagged rift between the Fey and Fell. A high forest of languid, pale blue willows that shed orange pollen onto a vacant expanse of flat rock far below. Swarms of nameless, fell crustaceans grazed upon the nectar-coated stones with pairs of fuzzy, too-long proboscises. Chittering like rain on a rooftop. Yuck. Both the scuttling critters and ham-fisted metaphor would immediately get on Siegward’s nerves— which was ideal, of course.

Persanius gazed up at the two-toned sky. Issuing a mental command to the immense swarm of machines that guarded this world from his life long friend. The invisible, microscopic machines respond in turn by opening a single coin-sized hole in their web.

“You’re late.” Hissed the crimson tendril of power that crept from the clouds. Like a wicked icicle that emitted an aura of power and discerning scrutiny. As it touched down, its mass formed into the shape of a wizened human man. Siegward glanced at the crustaceans, and scoffed with displeasure.

“I’m late?” Persanius rested a wrinkled palm on his chest in mock-offense, “We’ve arescheduled for you three times now.

“Unlike some people I actually have things to do. I don’t sit around on my old ass playing baby-sitter all day.” Siegward, whose crimson hue had now subsided to an ambient glow, narrowed his eyes into a scornful expression.

Expansive silence blanketed the nowhere-cliffside. Hanging until the two geriatric gods began to chuckle. Despite their distance, their power,and  their morals— the sound was just like any laugh shared between two old friends. 

Siegward waved a hand and his essence formed a bench. Persanius remained cross legged on the stones, producing a canvas and paints that hovered before him on the backs of divine, insectoid machines.

“So what did you bring for us today?” Persanius asked as he loaded paint onto a thumb-sized brush.

“Zareshti,” Siegward reached into his robes, retrieving a pint-sized glass bottle, “It comes from an Ocean world called Uras. Made from seaweed that grows on the under-shells of island sized crustaceans.”

“Is it any good?”

“No.” Siegward gave flatly as he filled two cups, also formed of his crimson essence.

Persanius took one of the cups, “So whose turn is it today, hm?”

“Mine.”

“I thought it was mine?”

“You always think it’s yours.” Siegward took a sip, made a face, and set the glass down beside him. Persanius did the same, giving a far more delighted expression. “I can sea why they like it.” He added with usual, monotone joviality.

Siegward responded with a flat look.

“A joke to alleviate the tension.” He added in customary fashion. For a god, it was very easy to get on his guest’s nerves.

“I wish to discuss your god killer.”

“Again?”

Siegward nodded, “It is a fascinating topic. Were we not rare mortals once?”

Persanius held Siegward’s gaze, taking another sip of the foul liquor. Pensively washing it over his tongue.

“They were successful again.” Persanius finally surrendered. It would only be a matter of time before Siegward found out on his own.

“Truely?” Siegward leaned forward, world-ending fascination behind his eyes, “the slave King is dead?! Hm… good riddance.”

It was now Persanius’ turn to let out a suffering sigh, putting brush to canvas. “Please don’t celebrate our misfortune, old friend. Surplus death numbering in the millions sits on our horizon.”

“But this is what you want isn’t it?” Siegward’s mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk. “Mortals who can stand against gods?” 

Persanius shot a sidelong glance, brush poised. Silence finds its way back into the seam between worlds. Tense, but not unfamiliar. The kind that can only exist between those whose friendship has survived the worst of trials.

“You should let me have them.” Siegward finally says. All the mockery having left his tone. “Your godkiller.”

“No.” Persanius says sternly.

“At least consider it, you stubborn old mule. With my boon, your god slayer could finish them before—”

“Even if I were to humor your selfish suggestion, you underestimate the Zolaen Gods. They are far more dangerous than you give them credit for.”

Siegward downed the rest of his drink, “how long have The Wanderers been trapped in this stale mate? My power is identical to yours— to all of yours. Need I remind you that you that I’m the only reason any of us are gods? But unlike you idealistic fools I’m not bound by any ridiculous rules.”

“Enough, Siegward. I won’t have it.” Persanius is calm, but firm as he cleans his brush. Contemplating for a moment as he chooses his next color. “And don’t act like I don’t already let you meddle on Zol. You may explore, but tread into my affairs, or be discovered by my peers and we will be at odds once more.”

Siegward leans back on his bench. Oddly petulant for a god. “Anger of the Stars. What a stupid name.”

“Why do they call you that?” Persanius cocked his head, fully putting his brush down this time.

“Aldaeus Un Traetus.” Sigeward seemed uncharacteristically self-conscious. “I’d pulled the name from old Feocaul, but the idiodic modern scholars of this world mistranslated it.”

Persanius gave a warm, earnest chuckle. “What is it supposed to mean? Language works strangely in this world thanks to Goh’zul’s tricks.”

Siegward pondered for a moment, “I suppose the Talomic equivalent would be ‘Cosmic Rage’— but it sounds foolish when you explain it so literally.”

Amused, Persanius dismissed the machines that carried his work. Giving his full attention to his friend. “Cosmic Rage? How is that so different?”

“Rage isn’t any mere anger, dear friend. Its sister sensations— annoyance, vexation, vehemence. They are so close in meaning that feeling any one of them can be seen as another. But there are key differences.” 

Siegward made a small gesture with his fore finger and three of Persanius’ cups of paint floated towards him. A coil of yellow flowing up from the center one forming an orb in the air. “Take your godkiller for example. Angry? Yes— but that’s not even a scrap of their tale. Their anger is born of wrong doing. Vengeance. A desire to punish. They are the picture of wrath.”

A second stream of paint rose from the leftmost cup. Orange as the pollen that dances overhead. The pigments clashed. Melded. Forming a blood red orb the size of a fist floating above Siegward’s hand. “Still anger. Still frustration, hate, and all their violent siblings. But wrath best tells your godkiller’s story. It is a powerful, but consuming emotion. They do not own their fate.”

“And rage is so different?” Persanius asked skeptically, hiding his annoyance at the misuse of his paints.

“Very.” With a final flick of the wrist, a third stem rose from the final cup. Black as night. “Wrath controls you. But rage? True, perfect rage cannot be controlled. That is its defining quality” As he spoke, the orb of paint darkened deeper and deeper. The dominant black consumes all traces of other pigments. As if the other colors hadn’t there at all. “The most honest and righteous of emotions.”

Persanius shook his head. Not with condemnation, but sincere, and fair disagreement. This is the same conversation they’ve always had, just in its latest attire. “So your ideal is to let your emotions rule you? Your ideal of self preservation and achievement only sews destruction. Sure, you have more power. Sure, you’ve survived the unsurvivable. But how far has rage truly gotten you from that sad arrogant boy from Chillwind. This is actualization in your eyes?”

“Emotions rule all of us, Persanius. That is what it is to be.” 

The chittering crabs outlined the silence that followed. The argument was so old it was almost comfortable at this point.

“Our godkiller reminds me of him.” Persanius eventually murmured, wistfully staring off into the Fell darkness.

“Who?”

Persanius’ mouth moved, but something was wrong with the sound— in fact there was no sound. Like the god had said a word, a name, that the universe couldn’t produce. Though the movement of his lips, and the gap in reality were all too familiar. Desmond.