Over and over again, a voice, strangely identical to mine, beckons an unknown name within my place of mental disquiet.
"V-syvious."
Instead of an intrapersonal abyss, I now stand on an ocean of obsidian amidst large floats of broken ice and sinking carcasses of the condemned sterns, as well as a forest of congealed, frosted towers crumbling from monumental heights. Giving in to instability. Yielding to the advancement of decomposition. Faltering to the inevitable.
Unable to stay in an upright penetrative position, the tower complexes ultimately collapse beneath the extensive barometrical shroud, adding architectural ruin to the sea of ice and death.
In front of me, and present amongst the execution of decay, is a lonesome individual in a resolute stance. Straight posture, with its back facing me, and feet parted. Head tilted back, and a raised chin, while staring up into the haze - waiting for something. It conveyed a mindful and melancholy presence as though the mood itself is a forewarning - an eerie prelude to what is about to transpire here. Their arms are hanging by their sides, disengaged and unnaturally relaxed, with their right palm sliced open. Bleeding.
Black stripes complement its white contrasting skin, marking its exposed calves, ankles, and forearms. Six curved horns protrude through the hood of its spectral robe. Miniature electrical storms furor in the soot-hued, louring fabric.
The ominous cloaked figure turns around and regards me with its atramental, eight eyes. Each was adorned with a vibrant stroke of red along the bottom eyelid.
"Your name is V-syvious." He says, imparting a feeling of solemnity with his serious and adamant demeanor. I presume he was the one calling out my apparent name, since we seem to have the same voice – unless there is an unperceivable mimic in our midst.
In all of my dreams so far that have been personally accounted for, I have perceived nothing short of his calamitous reality from a first-person point of view – his twisted and depraved narrative. I want to know why I've been experiencing these uncomfortable lucid dreams.
Are they an authentic and accurate portrayal of past events, or are they just an absurd metaphorical construct born from inside my subconscious?
If these consistent yet surreal happenings were indeed real and I'm genuinely reliving their conflict, then wouldn't that suggest they are, in fact, his memories? If there is a possibility that they are, then why am I spectating them?
This being, which stands before me, was the first to declare my supposed name – or is he using the scraps of someone else's identity for an underlying agenda? Should I really believe the claims of an instigator?
He is a vile entity who basks in the act of mayhem and slaughter. Unrestrained by the moralistic shackles of his conscience, and deriving pleasure from the thrill of consequence at his own expense, as well as countless others.
Does his sadistic and masochistic tendencies know no bounds?
Is there a possible grey area in the colorful complexity of his moral spectrum, or is it entirely grey? Were the wa-omme as innocent as the Esseden deemed as she fought valiantly with such uncompromising conviction? I bethink of the stern and the small group of downsized clones - the ones who became the opposition. Were all of the wa-omme so truly undeserving of it – or was it the addictive taste of the so-called delicious karma that has clearly driven him to insanity?
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I am your past and future." He replies nonchalantly. Another one of his alleged claims, one I am unwilling to accept so wholeheartedly. His calm and indifferent composure was unsettling to say the least, as scenes of Aromina's past destruction replay in my mind. I snarl at the unwanted, episodic motion images.
"I'd appreciate it if you could elaborate." I don't enjoy being taken for a gullible fool.
"You did not ask to be born - nor did you choose this life. Your freedom of choice was lost when your soul was unethically summoned against your will. Spirited away from the universal architect's side, and forced to incarnate for the very first time."
I was forced to incarnate into this body?
My skepticism and reluctance to believe his claims are overshadowed by my desire to ascertain. Prevailing over doubt and rationale. Encouraging me to listen to the rhetoric of the mentally disturbed. They are the spoken words of a mad creature.
"After I was taken by the void, I fell into a deep regenerative hibernation – a comatose state. My body and soul became unsearchable within its gastric emptiness. I was gone without a trace. No one could find me as I slumbered, and those who tried to locate my whereabouts went mad. Sillhaine was the only one who had witnessed my grand disappearance."
Regardless of whether they were lies or not, I found myself engrossed in his retellings, and contradictorily so. Reciting his celestial past and what had originally occurred before my awakening from his debatable narrative, I could feel each word drawing me in. I just couldn't seem to help myself despite the dire precariousness of his nature.
It's as if I've become tempted by the epitome of the unknown – the inexplicable.
"Thanks to ignorance and the awful lack of knowledge that pertains to divine darkness, I was presumed erased by the external convictions of others. They were convinced that my own power had turned on me - or the fatal repercussions of the Esseden's light penetrating my heart would eventually lead to my existential demise, when in actuality nothing of the sort happened. Instead, I fell into a coma, and it has almost been an eon since." After receiving a blow to the heart and spilling an endless amount of blood, he should have perished long ago.
"How is it possible that you are still alive?" I ask.
A devious and sinister grin spreads across his face.
"Willpower, perseverance, and wit." He answers, rather proudly.
"The souls of the first trinity were all created as equals, based on the principle of fairness; but sometimes, in order to best a fair game – you need to cheat - to ensure that you will always be ten steps ahead of everyone else. Never trust anyone, except yourself, V-syvious."
He has been inactive. Hidden from the ever-watchful eyes of the cosmos. He has survived by tipping the scales of fairness in his favor. Now, he lies in dormancy. Physically restricted by his circumstances. And yet, he is still able to communicate with me through my subconscious – through his implanted memories; so he isn't completely helpless. Although I can't say I understand or relate to his perspective due to my own lack of life experience thus far.
His grin retracts to a flat line.
"Ira was the one who was affected the most." He admits, grim-faced.
"His inability to overcome his loss impelled him to work tirelessly, failure after failure, during his period of grievance. Trying to bring me back by using my DNA stored in his private universal archives. A library of where everything has been recorded and collected over the celestial years." The Mal added.
"If you are capable of communicating with me, then why haven't you told Ira about your comatose status?"
"If he knew I was alive, you would have never been created."
I stare at him, perplexed.
Ira created me?
Awakening from inside a golden cocoon, to witnessing the total eradication of the stern and its downgraded, lesser duplicates, it was all because of him? The deranged creature smirks at my obvious and candid reaction.
"You are my first incarnation, V-syvious." He says. His claim was spoken in an unexpected, gentle tone. He almost sounded sympathetic. The fact that the Wa-omme were searching for me was not a coincidence. It was because of my connection to Ira, and the Sincistic Mal.
"Like I told you before, I am your past and future; your third reincarnation, to be more precise. Unlike you, who was begotten in the future, I was born in what you would consider the ancient past, roughly two and a half eons ago, where everything began. And as for the dreams you have been experiencing recently, they are indeed my memories, as you have already surmised. Your unlived future set in the ancient past of the grand celestial timeline."
He foresaw the consequences that would follow his presumed death. He made Ira carry the burden of bereavement on purpose, so he could instigate and guarantee my birth - for the sake of ensuring his own existence.
I was begotten by the soul I once had an amorous relationship with in a future life?
His smirk broadens into a dangerous, maddening smile, as though he knew my very thoughts.
"Our physical resemblance is undeniable, is it not?"
I frown at his comment. What does he mean by "our physical resemblance"? I divert my gaze to the water and decry a murky reflection. Six straight horns, curved inwardly at the tips. Eight intense, crimson eyes glaring back at me, and a long, angular jaw. An overall dark teal skin pigmentation and a large folded hood of flesh tucked into my broad neck.
Is this really me?
I snarl, and my reflection mirrors my visible distaste.
We are too similar.
And now that I know the truth behind the creation of my existence, I am nothing more than his replication. Born from someone else's grief. It wasn't Ira who stole my choice of liberty away from me - it was my future self.
I bare my fangs, and I charge towards him. He simply steps aside as I clumsily bore ahead. He grabs my wrist before I could launch a fist and bends it backwards, making me grimace, but not enough for the discomfort to be considered unbearable. I growl and snatch my wrist back from his grip. His composure remains the same, as he wears a slight smirk. Small-scale forks of lightning strike out from the corners of his black sclera.
I am a product conceived from his agenda for self-preservation. He is someone who exploits his own vulnerabilities, and, contradictorily so, he utilises them to his advantage.
I cannot tell whether his methods are ingenious or pure lunacy.
He and I are of the same soul.
It might explain how I managed to navigate through my first battlefield with perseverance and honed instincts, which I had tapped into unknowingly. My body subconsciously knew how to fight and react accordingly to the situation dictated by high adversity - or was it the result of cellular memory perhaps?
Images of my awakening flash into my mind. The rutilent nine-pointed starred emblems on the filthy walls. The odd golden energy cocoon I once slept in, with a cylindrical container on each side, housing a helical within; one was obsidian, whereas the other was carmine. They match the colour of our blood.
Why do we look almost none identical, when the founder had supposedly used the Sincistic mal's DNA to create me? Why is the colour of our blood, our eyes, and our skin not the same? Was it intended, or was our noticeable distinction due to some sort of genetic dilution?
My third reincarnation insinuated that there were many trials and errors in Ira's desperate endeavor to bring him back. Am I one of those failed outcomes?
If I am an imperfect result, then why bother to protect me from the opposition? It hardly makes any sense.
"As much as I do enjoy the exhilaration of adrenaline in combat, I would prefer not to engage with you. It is a battle you cannot ever hope to win. Instead, concentrate on the upcoming obstacle ahead – or suffer a permanent and harrowing end." His top lip curls over as he shows his fangs. There is a minor and dull glint of desperation in his vertical, pitch-black pupils, as he emphasizes his emotions with a vocal sibilance.
"I can sense the divine element of electricity within you. It is keen to aid you in this lifetime. I implore you to use it well. Do not ever squander your gifts, V-syvious. Respect them, and they will do so in kind to you."
"What of your second element? Darkness? Will it assist me also, in this lifetime?"
"It has chosen to guide our second incarnation." He said.
"Our second incarnation?"
He strides towards me and steps nonchalantly into my personal space. He gently takes my chin and tilts it up ever so slightly.
"Ah – your irises have permanently captured the impassioned colours of the imploding suns before the void came to my aid." He takes his hand away.
"The death of a planet or star is both tragic and beautiful. When absolute destruction is beheld subjectively, it becomes a spectacle of splendor and unbridled wonderment." He then peers over my shoulder.
"Isn't that right –Alex?"
I turn around and steal a glimpse of a small, bipedal silhouette behind me. It is around five ft. nine in height. How long has it been standing there for? The mad entity backtracks with his arm spread wide open in jest.
"I shall leave you two to become acquainted." He laughs, and then turns his back to me, as I had initially found him. He casts his gaze upwards to the grand otherworldly mist as an enshrouded shadow plummets from high altitudes, beyond the wintry brume, and cries out, "Sincistic Mal!"
Then a whirlwind of silver sleet encircles me, and so, the Esseden's defiled world blurs out of focus, spinning into distortion. I stand in the midst of bleariness and deformation. Innumerable, broken, and warped visages with bleeding stygian optics manifest within the opaque vortex. They reach out to me with their marred and edged hands. Straining their arms. They desire to take me with them.
I inch away from the collective's aspiring clutches, backing into the centre point of the vortex. I stop and stare around at the whirling entrapment of disproportioned faces.
Then the coinciding flurry of silver disbands and melts into the spinning malformation of my surroundings as it begins to cease.
As my vision manages to recapture its focus once again, I find I am still standing on the same blood-filled ocean of taint.
It was as though I had never moved at all.