Chapter 61 – Teller of Fate

Teller of Fate

Sixth Movement: The Fate of Stars

Chapter Sixty-One

* * *

The Templar Phæthon’s sister, Paris, could remember only this War and nothing else. Ever she struck at the White God, each blow wounding, each wound bleeding, never enough to kill.

It tried to squeeze her, crush her, drink of her essence—failure that amounted to victory; for though IT could not kill her, neither could she kill IT.

This stalemate had gone on beyond reckoning for her, likely for both; though she’d never been able to determine if the White God had a mind at all.

Her only other remaining sense was for the other, her brother. She could feel him, sometimes sense what he felt, but never speak, never communicate.

Just as well there was no time here. Madness would long ago have been the result. Then all would be lost.

In the fullness of what passed for time, her struggles became harder. The wounds she dealt became more minor, the attempts to crush the essence from her more frequent and insistent.

Paris realized that despite the last and most powerful magick of the Templars, the White God might kill her.

The only other surviving Templar had never lost a battle. Paris had always been the best and the finest warrior.

The possibility she could lose now was a much worse thought than dying. Dying was something she longed for and knew was forever denied her.

Long time it seemed, was the waning of her strength. Long time and no end, no death, no victory for her enemy.

Then a startling change: IT stopped fighting! Buried in ITs bowels though she was, she could sense a change in ITs demeanour. IT was energized by something. It took the Magus of the Brocach Temple a while to realize that IT was happy; happy because IT was free.

Soon, it began to feed. The lives of billions began to fill IT. The Warrior was no longer alone, but the spirits of the dead were poor companions and soon gone, anyway. She began to experience a new torment: boredom. There was no one to fight, no escape, and no death.

Desperately, she tried to contact her brother. ‘Get me out of here!’

* * *

After some time waiting, Phæthon sent a thought out his sister, not expecting that he could make more than tentative contact and was stunned to hear her scream.

The Templar was knocked sideways by the force of her call, barely managing to keep his feet. He opened his eyes only to find everyone else staggering as well. What the hell—?

The city was moving!

The Templar looked in the direction opposite the movement and saw Rakhesh blown about by something he couldn’t see. Something was pushing on the city and the Spire.

A tumbling, rolling, grinding, grating sound filled the air. Screams could now be heard from everywhere.

* * *

It was in the depths of her despair that the change came to Paris.

A shockwave rippled through the guts of the White God. That she felt it was almost enough to unhinge her reason. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.

Emotions came to her from the White God.

IT was enraged.

Had someone attacked it? Was her brother come to her rescue?

She tried calling to him. No reply.

IT began moving.

She sensed some other feeling beneath the anger but could not identify what it was.

She knew the White God had left the Multiverse; Nonspace had a feel to it that could not be mistaken, even inside the gullet of a god.

She could not imagine where IT must be headed. Nonspace had nothing but the Myr. They were the fiercest fighters known. Not even the Templars at the height of their strength had been a match for them. If the Myr had allied themselves with the White God…

That was a thought to bring nightmares.

Tempering her fear was the sudden surge of fear from her eternal foe.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026

© Gideon Jagged
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