Chapter 70 – Teller of Fate

Teller of Fate

Seventh Movement: What Came After

Chapter Seventy

* * *

The last day found Phæthon and his sister Paris entangled in sleep and each other.

They’d kept to themselves since the end of the battle, letting the Hermetists and Guild leaders attend to the minutiae of aftermath. The bond forged a hundred thousand years ago to enable them to keep fighting the White God still held them. They were inside and surrounding each other in an intimacy unmatched. They had taken advantage of this and of the time they had to love each other as only sex starved mates can.

It should have surprised no one that they were lovers as well as siblings, but it would have shocked any of their kin. The Altanteans had prohibitions against incest, both legal and cultural, that beggared those of most other species. Their affair had begun before either of them was out of childhood. Its discovery might have resulted in sterilization or even death, were it anyone other than their doting parents that did the discovering. The cure had been their admittance to different Temples: he the Órga, she the Brocach.

Despite their separation, they continued their affair in the most clandestine ways they could, until the day of the White God trumped all other considerations.

Now they were the last Atlanteans as well as the last Templars. There was no one to object.

Only three things had they wanted for the last thousand centuries. The death of the White God they achieved. The another was to embrace as lovers again. To be the length of a feeling from the other and yet not able to touch had been the most hellish part of their ordeal.

Today, they would go where the last and greatest of their desires could finally be fulfilled. They dressed, broke their fast, and headed out.

Their first stop was Dævara’s suite. They found her up and ready for travel. Brad—now called ‘Brandær’, she told them—she was letting sleep awhile longer. Poor thing had worn himself out the night before. Naturally, she was grinning when she said it.

As per their prior arrangement, they next visited the suite that the Miu Erahndira shared with her new lovers, the Airkhart siblings. The revelation that other consanguineous lovers were here and part of the fight to end the White God made Paris and Phæ feel happier than either could account for.

The conversation was brief and pleasant. The three had agreed immediately to seek out Zaphyrym House. Neither of the Templars would see the end of that affair, but both were comforted by the quality of the people they had selected to fight the inevitable battle they felt certain the knowledge would bring.

As they headed back to Dævara’s suite, they talked of the parting to come. Despite their long quest for an end, both Templars dreaded it.

Dæv spoke first, stopping in a quiet hallway and facing the pair. “Father, I want to say how much it means to me to have finally known you.” She got though it without weeping, but her eyes were glistening with tears.

Phæthon met his daughter’s eye, unable to prevent his own sweet sadness. He embraced Dævara and kissed her tenderly. “Though I cannot stay, getting to know you better is almost enough to make me linger, dear daughter,” he spoke softly into her ear.

Paris was smiling warmly. “Dame Teller,” reminding the elf of the prophetic title bestowed by the head of the Order of Hermes. She embraced the now openly weeping pair, unable to stem her own tears. “I wish we could stay to see the glorious future you have before you, dear niece.”

Dævara’s replied, voice broken with her grief, “I’ll make you proud father and you, Aunt Paris. I promise I will.”

And that was all. The Templars took a side hall to their rooms as Dæv headed on to hers. None hesitated or looked back.

The Templar siblings headed to their suite one last time to gather the last of their belongings and head out to the Plaza. A brief conversation with Abram, the Archivist for the Hermetists, got the ban on the Miu lifted.

Phæ had to hide a mild distaste in doing so. His affection for his daughter wasn’t the only thing tempting him to stay. Deductions and conclusions about the Hermetists predicted a dangerous conflict to come. To fight the good fight again…

It had been a long time since he’d had purpose. Much as it worried him, those who remained would have to do the fighting. He had done all he could to make sure they were equal to the task.

Finally, it was time to go.

Hand in hand, the two Templars walked over to where the last remaining Myr were gathered, waiting only for this meeting before returning to their City of the Pyramids in Nonspace.

The Myr were distinct from all other forms of life the Templars had ever encountered—bar the White and Red Gods. They had adapted to and, by their own account originated in Nonspace. Their appearance was affected by those around them. Most saw them as similar in appearance to themselves. Their native form, if they had one, was unknowable. Their skin appeared to him as a brilliant, unbroken white. Splinters of starlight seemed to dance on their forms. It always seemed blinding no matter the length of exposure, yet it never affected the sight of the viewers. They had no visible orifices, not even mouths.

The eyes of the Myr were their only feature. A soft glowing white, they seemed quite dim compared to their skin.

Speech, such as it was, was a thing of the mind with them.

Like the Templars, they had no names; nor was there any way of distinguishing them one from the other.

A Myr stepped forward. ‘You will honour your agreement, both of you.’

Neither Templar responded. It hadn’t been a question or even a command. It had been a bald statement of fact, as if it had already been realized.

‘Two Rakhesh there are—’ it indicated two of the silver horses, standing a few feet away—‘that will take you to your destination and then leave you. We will know if you deviate or delay and Glyph will die.’

The Myr insisted on talking of the city as if it were a living thing. Paris answered. “We will honour our agreement. We will travel to the agreed destination with all speed immediately.”

‘That is well.’

And that was it. The Myr mounted their steed, two of them straddling the remaining Admoio, and sprang into the air. In moments, they were just specs in the sky. Spheres hid them quickly, as if they had never have existed at all.

Looking back down, Phæ and Paris noticed that the Plaza was almost empty. The remaining Hermetists had departed as well.

Like their masters, the Rakhesh took their form from the minds and expectations of their viewers. They resembled the horses of Oerth in almost every detail save two. They had no manes or tails and they looked to be made of quicksilver. No saddle or bridle did they have.

Both Phæ and Paris had ridden them before, long ago and in vastly different circumstances. Climbing on them was not as awkward as might be expected for two riders of such diminutive size. The horses were not as slick as their surfaces indicated. In fact, they were quite soft and almost adhesive. In seconds, the two were astride the beasts.

Another moment and they were airborne, circling ever higher above the city. When they had cleared the tops of the towers by a safe margin, they arrowed straight out in the sphere filled oddness of Nonspace. No one they knew saw them go.

It was a timeless, silent trip. Surreal, even for those as experienced in the oddness of the Multiverse. The Rakhesh made the journey safe and were utterly silent. No noise could the Templars themselves make.

They glanced at one another from time to time; joy and sadness battling for possession of their faces.

The transition from Nonspace to real space-time was subtle. Distant details of spheres slowly morphed into something else. By the time it became clear what that something else was, the spheres themselves had become barely discernable and, finally, only a memory.

They were soaring above a green and fertile world. It was Oerth—their Oerth.

Travelling at many times the local speed of sound, they circled the planet twice until they saw the spot they were looking for: a large peninsula of land jutting out into a blue-green gulf of water. Descending and slowing, feeling no wind, the Templars eventually landed at the edge of a perfectly circular black plain.

They climbed down. The Rakhesh immediately leapt into the air again and were lost to view in the clouds in moments.

The gulf was near, its surf a slow comforting pulse in the background. The breeze was mild, the sun warm.

By an unspoken agreement, they both sat in a comfortable patch of scrub and, holding each other, listened to the tide. The last duty could wait a little while.

After twenty minutes of cuddles and reverie, Paris said, “Anyway, I’m pregnant.”

Phæthon smiled. “You remembered the promise.”

“How could I forget.”

“It’s just as well, too. Dævara is going to need the help. I take it you recognized her, too.”

“She’s not an easy one to forget. How much did you tell her?”

“Nothing. She’ll figure it out on her own, I’m sure.”

After another silence. “We’re counting on a Seanduine to fix what other Seandaoine broke.”

“Three Seandaoine, actually.”

“Who’s the third?”

“I impregnated a Iola.”

“Just can’t keep it in your pants, can you.”

“It wasn’t my idea. The Iolar seemed determined that I do so.”

“Well, it does comfort me. Repairing Færie isn’t going to be easy. Do you think she’ll face much opposition?”

“With the Wanderer out of the picture, the only possibility is the Yellow King and he’s as likely to help as to oppose.”

“Don’t forget Poseidon.”

“He won’t be a problem.” He went on to relate the change in the Sea God that he’d learned on his trip in through the Silvergrey Sea.

“I’m glad. For Dævara and for him.” After a pause, “No point waiting anymore.”

They rose and turned away from the water. Arms around each other, they walked slowly to the center of the smooth black disc of the plain.

By no clear means, the siblings found themselves at the exact center. There they turned and embraced, kissed. Turning together to face the sun, they intoned, “Emeth.”

A smaller circle of black stone, perhaps three yards across, centered on them, began to rise. In the distance, at the edge of the circle, other pillars began to emerge from the plain. Without counting, both knew there were one hundred and twenty of them, spaced evenly around the rim of the plain. On each one, a Templar had stood twice: once to be bound and once to be released.

With no noise and only the slightest of jerks, the pillar stopped growing. Both were now thirty yards above the plain. A low vibration shook the pillar. It ascended their feet, making them feel lighter and weaker. They embraced once more then separated.

Facing each other across a distance just too far for physical contact, they locked gazes and waited, arms raised to praise the sky.

The shaking began to take them apart. Sparks of many colours sprang off their forms, flying up.

As this continued, their consciousnesses fled bit by bit until nothing remained. To an observer, twin streams of sparkly nothing in parallel rainbow arcs would have been seen disappearing in the late evening light.

The last of the Templars had finally been allowed to die.

Finally, it was over. Looking nothing like the Atlanteans they had been, and dressed in native clothing, the pair embraced as the pillar slowly descended.

Into her ear, “One last mortal life together.” The language he spoke was also that of the natives.

They broke the embrace. Paris said, “If memory serves, there’s village half a day’s march from here.”

“Yes. I’m sure they’ll welcome two more.”

“Three more,” patting her belly.

Hand in hand they walked away from the shore and into the jungle.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026

© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved