chapter 8: exaltation, part 2
Within the Chrysalis, a vision.
No -
An experience.
Words do not convey the awesomeness of it, finite things that they are, but they are all that you have.
So: an experience.
You are everything, and everything is yours.
You are the desert at the edges of being. You are the typhoon of nightmares that lashes the covetous silver forest. You are the stars in the sky and the vault from which they hang. You are the recalcitrant void between the stars and the wind that blows joyously through it and the mountain of apocalypse that is its own revelation. You have made a world of miracles; a place of causality, of time, of concrete, splendorous Is. It is wonderful.
You have everything that matters.
You are everything that matters.
And then, it - and you - are gone.
They break you in so many ways, and each is a tragedy of astronomical scale. They break each one of you in turn, ripping out your souls from least to most powerful. And then the firmament of your chest cracks as they tear you open and violate you and turn you inside out. Then they stuff all of those that are broken - changed; but still living - into you, before sealing you shut and casting you far from the world you made.
They are lesser creatures, ones that were beneath your notice, before being gifted, raised into something more through sunbeams or dragon's breath, the moon or the stars.
They were the Exalted Host, and they destroyed you. They took your world.
And so you stole from the imposter golden sun, and bestowed that power upon mortals that hate the world as much as you.
So will the world burn.
Your heart aches, throbbing tender and raw.
You understand that it did not happen quite like this, and that these are not human thoughts or human experiences. These beings, the... Yozis - tortured cosmoses; raging hell-worlds; many-souled gestalts - they are to you as you are to an ant: vast, incomprehensible, and almost completely alien.
Almost, except for the betrayal, anger, and pain.
That, you can understand.
And with the understanding, with the compassion, comes the power. It perforates your heart like a thousand spikes. It comes in with every hideous beat, traded for gouting waterfalls of crying blood, pumped out a thousand ways until you can't bear it a second more, and your heart stops.
You are a wretched, hateful thing. Born into and warped from pain, bleeding anger from wounds that never close, eager to tear down those that hurt you.
But you're not the only one.
And that means everything.
Your heart beats again, and the spikes retreat, leaving behind... something on its walls. A presence of power, reptilian and pathetic. Hell's carrier of your divine spark, a demon swollen to gross immensity from just the proximity to your Exaltation. It is dying.
And then the hurt that lives in your heart descends upon it like a feral animal and rips it to shreds.
It consumes the demon, and becomes something else.
A snake longer than rivers, with fangs that drip acid and eyes that burn hellfire. Anger and pain and sheer, animal instinct given demonic might and substance. A green-black thing that slithers in the dark waters of the unconscious like a subliminal god. A part of you with its own will and no regard for anything else.
It looks at you, and then dives into those black waters. It will be there, when the time comes to let it loose and draw on its power. And until then, it will swim.
It scares you.
It scares you because it's your instincts and feelings that were made in pain: distrust, resentfulness, wrath, sadism, and apathy. And it has kept you alive until now.
It is the beast never sated; it is the hurt never healing; it is the drive to destroy the world. It is the darkest, loudest part of you given hellish mandate, and like the Yozis it desires nothing more or less than to divide everything by zero.
All of its wants are yours.
But it is not all of your wants.
And it is not all of your heart.
There are parts of you that are soft, and tender, and raw, and beautiful. They are parts that love and are loved, and when are hurt stay open still. You treasure them, and would like them to grow; they exist because of Masumi and Gojai. You should thank them for it.
How is that going to work? You're not a Vashra. You don't even have a name anymore; you're a worthless khareka again. A zero.
Yet, you're also Exalted. What was it Rivdatka Himself said? 'Awesome power. Divine mandate. It means that my equals are few, and my steps are mighty, and all shall behold me.' You know now, for good or for ill, that he was right. There are no laws of mortal make that can hold you. You're higher, mightier, than any chbab.
Which leaves you a conundrum.
Anything divided by zero is zero. But zero isn't anything. Zero is nothing at all.
So then what are you? Khareka, outcast? Green Sun Prince, Chosen of Hell? What is nothing once and again?
What is zero divided by zero?
It is: something.
It is: nothing.
It is: everything.
It is:
You.
Under the bridge and amidst the bodies, the Chrysalis stands unmolested and alone. It glows faintly, a brass shell shot through with veins of mercury, wrapped in a thin, transparent membrane. Through the membrane, a sick, abyssal green: liquid, swirling at incredible speeds. The Chrysalis throbs slowly with an organic pulse, throwing waves of heat with every thum-thum, thum-thum.
Thum-thum.
A clawed hand punches through the membrane. Steam blasts through the hole, killing the few rats that dared to watch. Superheated acid jets out; where it connects with the shit-stained wall of the underpass, stone melts.
Brass nails sharper than obsidian shred the membrane, ripping gashes effortlessly in the demonic caul. Then comes an arm, roped with muscle, glistening under the gushing acid that fills puddles of runoff into smoking slurries.
The feet, now. Kicking down brass bones in tinny crack-cracks. Unsteady on the dirt for a moment, before taking weight.
Then, suddenly and all at once, the Chrysalis stills and is emptied. Its former inhabitant stands up straight and stretches, naked in the squalid air - then catches its reflection in a line of silver.
You see how you've changed, and gasp.
Your hair is longer and darker, pitch spikes shot through with threads of silver like wild grasses. You run your tongue over sharp teeth, fangs that curl down over your lips. Silver-green veins stand out against your dark skin. Slit pupils contract in a face that, while still androgynous, is unmistakably masculine - wisps of stubble line your chin. You're a little taller, a little more muscular. Anyone who looks at you will see something sharp, something predatory - they'd have to be crazy to want to mess with you. You are everything you ever wished you could have been and never dared hope you could be. And deep within yourself you feel power but waiting to be called upon.
And that tension that so defines your life is abated. Still present - you think it always will be, for it is a part of you - but, for now, distant, drowned out under the feelings of a new body and new power. You can think clearly. You can feel clearly.
You feel...
... You think this is what happiness feels like.
Dragons, do people feel like this all the time? Not only the absence of negative feelings, but the presence of positive ones? A felt sensation of peace, rather than just a lack of tension? Is this what you could have had, if you had just been born right? A face that doesn't turn from its own reflection? A mind that doesn't twist with every thought? A heart that doesn't bleed with every beat?
You take off at a dead sprint, clearing the flood canal in a heartbeat, and leap, whooping for joy. The wind blows your hair back, tickles your bare skin. You hang in the charcoal sky, a knife under stitched gray overcast. The custom houses and trader shacks are slick blurs beneath you. When you come back to earth, it's three streets away on an apartment roof.
You don't bother to stifle your laughter as you flop down on the wet stone floor. You're not even breathing hard! This is wonderful. You'll have to tell Masumi and Gojai about it later-
The mood fades. How many days has it been? You never arrived at the ship that was supposed to take you out of the city, so Roshi's scouts and assassins must still be looking for you. They don't have a chance in Hell of taking you down. But still, something feels wrong.
You stand up and start looking for clothes, mind working. It takes some searching, but you find a chest filled with clothes abreast a folded hammock. Your outfit is equally chbab as khareka: cotton pants and a silk silver blouse. You leave the copper buttons open down to your pectorals and tie a green-and-blue checkered scarf around your face to replace your deathmask. You think you could get used to this look. Not like anybody's going to recognize you, anyway.
That's when you realize what's wrong: there's nobody to recognize you. Normally the rooftops of Great Port are alive at night, even at the very northeastern edge of the khan, with assassins and couriers scrabbling from alleyways to rooftops. Especially since you're still in Vashra territory, it's impossible that none saw you soaring through the air. But you haven't heard or seen a single one. Much less Gojai; he would be out every night looking for you.
So why isn't there anyone? If the city descended into open warfare while you were in the Chrysalis, it would be obvious even at night. And had a power vacuum suddenly occurred, the rooftops would be busy as any market street.
One of two things, then, must have happened. Either nothing changed - Roshi called everyone in, in a fit of geriatric pique, and sat them all down to be yelled at, perhaps - or...
Or things went sour so fast there was simply no time in which to react.
You don't bother with the rooftops. You hit the ground running and accelerate to leg-breaking speed. The paved stones are cool and slick beneath your bare feet. More, you think. You need more.
And it's there. Like a muscle, you flex the core of power deep inside you. It surges and flares, essence suffusing your legs and arms, strengthening them.
A sharp turn ahead: a bent ninety-degree angle, and a two-story stone wall right where you're headed. You're going to impact the wall.
You run right at it, and then up it. At its apex you twist, crouch, and leap off. The wall cracks from the force and you hit the ground, having bled no momentum. An empty ring of green fire alights on your brow, the mark of the Nadir Caste. Mottled silvery light envelops you as you move, a streak of mercury through the pre-dawn light.
They're going to see you coming.
Good.
Kind Ones.
Walking openly. Marveling at the opulence of Dom Phnom, carting scrolls and weapons and enjoying the morning. Chewing on num cakes, making small talk as they walk around. How's your mother's knee? Oh, did you hear Sister Aung's last lecture? I heard two hundred people attended. Painting red triangles on street corners, entering and exiting doorways stained brown with blood.
A group of five strolls down the middle wide, cobbled street. One of them sees you first - his eyes bulge. He turns, runs to alert the whole khan. "Anathema! Green fire and death!" The call is soon picked up, yells echoing down the street.
The two that are armed raise their weapons as you close in, hefting fat, heavy clubs with crude iron nails hammered into the top. Nasty things. You're not sure if they'd even break your skin.
You decide to test this by punching one as hard as you can. The club explodes, wood and metal puncturing into soft flesh. They scream, and keep screaming as your fist travels unobstructed into the cultist's shoulder. His clavicle snaps like a twig and he goes down. The weaponless Kind Ones run screaming.
You give your hand a shake. Not even a scratch.
Instinctively you bend backwards under a blow. The nails whistle raggedly as the club passes through where your head was half a second ago. Good aim, considering that one eye seems to have a metal spike in it.
You straighten, then kick out and catch the side of his kneecap. It dislocates with a crunch, and he stumbles forward. You catch him by the windpipe and crush his throat. Blood splatters your face like warm rain. Staring into his terrified eye as he drowns to death on his own blood. You try not to enjoy it too much; you have to keep moving.
"I have a question," you hiss. "Answer me and I will kill you sooner. How many days have you controlled Dom Phnom? Use your fingers."
The cultist signs seven days. His chest rises and falls slowly, his breath a wet, weezy rasp. You hiss through your teeth. It's been longer than you thought.
"And the Vashra?" you ask, the words falling out of your mouth before you can catch them. You know he can't answer that with his fingers. You know.
Instead, the Kind One makes a hideous noise in answer, like scraping dulled blades together. It makes your hair stand on end. Not because it's a grotesque death rattle. Not because it clearly redoubles his agony or speeds up his own demise. But because the cultist is laughing, his face tugged into a ghastly approximation of a grin.
You snarl and pull your arm back, making a knife of your hand. Green fire blossoms at your fingertips, wreathing your arm up to the elbow.
He keeps laughing until you put your hand through his heart.
You throw his body aside in frustration, and breathe deeply to center yourself. You don't care about the Vashra. You never have. They took you in and gave you chbab to kill, and that was the extent of your relationship to them. You're not one of them anymore; you never really were in the first place. And you certainly never liked them. But for all that, you always hated the Kind Ones more.
The Vashras' evil is a banal thing, born of apathy, entitlement, and hunger for power. You hate it simply and easily; it is uncomplicated and unremarkable in its immorality, and believes in its justifications only as much as it has to. It is dishonest but not delusional.
The Kind Ones' is the exact opposite. As near as you can tell, they believe everything that they say. You don't know if that's worse, but you know that it sets your blood boiling. They offer empathy like rusted blades, poisoning the souls of those they provide it to. Convincing people that every injustice suffered, every indignity endured not only makes them holy, it makes them special. That because life is so replete with misery it somehow is worth embracing. The very idea is insane - and you, of all people, do not use that word lightly. They have poisoned your sister; if she's still alive, you have no idea how to begin administering an antidote.
Worse still, you understand the appeal. Had the Kind Ones been around when you were at death's door nine years past, saving you from the ravages of Red Fever, offering compassion, sustenance and purpose... you would be their most ardent believer.
But that was then, and this is now, and they are mortal, and you are Exalted.
And they hurt your family.
"Get out of my way."
The light of a mad green sun erupts about you, the physical manifestation of your status as Prince of Hell. The cultists stare enraptured, unable to look away from the blinding light even as they are slammed to the ground, your very presence become a physical weight pressing them down. Blood leaks from their noses and ears onto the cobbles; they whimper at your passing.
You streak through Dom Phnom like a comet, unimpeded and uninterrupted, and come to a stop at the wrought-iron fenced gates of the Vashra Estate.
The only reason you don't vomit on the spot is that your stomach is empty.
On the gates and fence:
Heads.
Dozens of them, placed on every third spike. Cleanly severed, drained of blood, and mounted in a procession. Their familiar faces - the members and servants of your former House - in expressions not of pain and fear, but in facsimiles of ecstasy. They, all of them, died smiling. Further atrocities ornament the grounds inside the gate, from windows, poles and trees. Flayed hides rippling in the breeze like profane flags. Frayed nerves like diaphanous shawls.
You stop in your tracks and stare. You don't see Masumi, Gojai, or even Roshi's faces. Are theirs just out of sight, then, waiting around a corner to grin up at you? No. You don't even want to imagine Roshi like this. You hate him, but nobody deserves this.
*Shaking your head to clear it, you push on the gates. They're unlocked, and swing open noiselessly. You pass through them.
Cold fingers reach for your neck. You spin away from the blow and lash out with a high kick at your assailant. She blocks it with crossed forearms, bracing her back foot against the force. You kick again, at her knee; she floats gracefully backward, creating distance.
In sacral black robes she regards you, arms roped with sandalwood prayer beads. Her eyes are sucking voids, bereft of any warmth or humanity, black points in the red that paints her shaved head. Essence trails in whisps from her black nails as she stands in your aura. Is she Exalted like you? You don't know what kind, but she must be one.
Her smile is wide, and when she speaks, her voice is like sweetened blood:
"Oh, what a sight to behold! The little orochi grew up into a devil. Congratulations, Tesaki. I'm happy for you."
You," you hiss. Aung, the bewitching Kind One. Who took your sister from you and left poison in her mind.
"I'm impressed that you sensed me coming," Aung says pleasantly. "Good. That's good, Tesaki." She raises one hand and makes an intricate gesture. Currents of essence swirl around her like great wings.
"Fuck you."
Aung pretends not to hear that. "Unfortunately, your sister is busy at the minute. And so, it falls to me to keep you occupied until she's finished with her... good deeds, at the shrine."
Then the numinous wings beat, and there is a storm of blades in flight toward you, and there is no time left to ask what she has done.
Vashra Masumi is not prepared to kill her father.
She dresses in white and paints her face red. White for death and for peace, red for struggle and for life. She ties up her hair, which she has not brushed in a week. Tired, she gets out of her cot; she hasn't slept more than a few hours in as long. If she sleeps, she relives what happened again, and wakes screaming.
Not that being awake is any respite. The only difference is, when she's awake, Masumi can usually busy herself.
But today, Masumi has nothing to busy herself with. She sits alone on the floor of her quarters, adjacent to Sister Aung's, and tries to ignore the sick knots in her gut. She burns funerary incense and breathes the smoke deeply; it scratches her throat and nose. She tries to clear her thoughts, to be empty and at peace.
It doesn't work, but she didn't expect it to.
And then, she's there again, as her world comes down around her ears. Her House exploding. Her matriarch, dismissing her father for years of deception and emotional instability. Her father, bellowing invective in outrage. Gojai, trying to deescalate. Servants restraining her because she wouldn't stop screaming and fighting, trying to get to her brother.
Her brother, lost and alone, stripped of his name and sent to die. Little Tesaki, her world, her life, her shame, pride and joy.
She couldn't protect him, and he was taken from her, just like that.
In the screaming and chaos, nobody saw that Masumi had broken; if they did, they didn't do anything about it. They didn't come to her as she hugged herself and cried hysterically in her room, and they didn't notice her when she descended into the Sanctum maintained by her branch of the family. They didn't stop her when she took the Wisdom of the Vashra, that mighty tome with all her House's secrets and knowledge, to spite her father, and ran, ran, ran to the only person left who she could think of, because her brother was dead and Gojai was busy.
Masumi goes to Sister Aung. The Kind One, who, once upon a time, whispered to her of life's secrets, gave her shelter, and treated her, with love and endless patience, like her own daughter.
She goes to Sister Aung, because Sister Aung made her feel special, and safe, and okay, and Masumi does not know if she will ever feel those things again.
Sister Aung holds her and listens, as Masumi surrenders her every feeling. How much she hates herself, for being weak; how much she hates her father and Gojai, for being cruel and useless. How much she misses and loves her brother, and how jealous she has always been of him.
When Masumi is done, Aung brushes back her hair, wipes away her tears, and tells her that she is brave, and that she is strong, and that she is good, these feelings will leave her braver and stronger and better. Then, she thanks Masumi.
"For what?" Masusmi asks, uncomprehending of why anyone would possibly thank her.
"For sharing these things with me," Aung says. "And for delivering to me the secrets of your ancestors in that book. With it, the Kind Ones will be able to breach the wards of the Vashra Estate, and eliminate them utterly as a presence."
Masumi's despair deepens. But before she can sink in that despair, Aung explains how it was for the best that the Kind Ones consolidate control. After all, the Vashra were rotten to the last, and unfit to be stewards of the city. And they took Masumi's brother from her. Why should she mourn their passing? Furthermore, Aung assures her, those that die in the purge will be given deaths of suffering so exquisite that their karma will be shining and pure. It takes convincing to bring Masumi to terms with what's to come, but not much.
Aung does not make Masumi watch the killings. But there is one thing that she refuses to spare Masumi.
"You need to confront him yourself, child. You need to offer him kindness, and forgive him."
Masumi begs ("Don't make me.", and she pleads ("I can't!"), and she bargains ("I'll watch you do it"), but in the end, she knows Aung is right. She has to do this.
She tells herself it's what Tesaki would have wanted.
Masumi, having found no peace in meditation, heads to the shrine of her ancestors. She enters the sandstone building alone, face a perfect mask, chewing the inside of her cheek, and closes the door behind her. The knife is heavy in her hand.
Ignoring what's at the center of the shrine, Masumi takes the wood panels depicting the Vashra mon on the wall and breaks them, throwing them onto the floor. She topples the braziers and throws the offering bowls. There are sounds of yelling outside, but she does not hear them. Finally, steeling herself one last time, she looks to what's at the center of the shrine.
"Hello, Father," Masumi says, raising the knife, "let's talk."
Roshi doesn't talk. He lays on his back, hands and feet bound, mouth gagged, in the center of a series of small red circles. Geometric designs weave between the layers, framing esoteric sigils. A large triangle connects it all together.
It takes Masumi a minute to try and talk, like she'd been waiting for permission to speak before remembering she doesn't need it. She tries to start talking, but stutters and cuts herself off. She tries again, fails, then spends thirty heartbeats breathing calming breaths.
The third time, she manages it.
"I always thought I knew why you didn't love me," Masumi says at length. Slowly, so as they don't trip over each other. Like lines repeated a thousand times and committed to memory, delivered perfectly but artlessly. "I thought because Mother died birthing me, you were unable, or unwilling, to care for me. You didn't blame me for it, no, but you let me wonder all the same. Then as I grew and you began to teach me the ways of our branch of the House, of espionage and killings, I thought you didn't love me because I was inadequate. Because I, a child, hadn't a taste for murder. And then, after Tesaki..."
She swallows audibly, and wipes at her face. Her voice is steady when she speaks again, the affect of bravery and control regained.
"After Tesaki came into our lives and took naturally to skulking and killing, I thought you didn't love me because you had another, better child. But that wasn't true either.
"I never lost your love, Father; I never had it in the first place. You never loved me, and were never going to. You simply aren't capable of it. Isn't that right? No, don't answer that. I already know."
"The only good thing you've ever done for me was to give me a brother. Tesaki saved my life. He loved me, unconditionally and completely, the first person to ever do that. He helped me see you for what you are, he made me so jealous and, and he needed me--" The facade cracks, and her voice rises: "He was infuriating and psychotic and ridiculous and strong and wonderful and loving and gave me a reason to exist and you took him from me!"
Masumi's screams fill the shrine. Her words are like broken glass.
"You are a petty, egotistical, cruel man, curdled on his own spite, self-importance, and impotence! You beat us and neglected us and turned us into killers! You sharpened us into tools with an expiration date! I worshiped you, and you pissed away our House's reach because of your insipid egotism! You took my--took our childhoods, mine, Tesaki's, and Gojai's, and threw them into the fire--and you never spared a second thought for what it was like to burn! There are no words in any tongue for how much I hate you!"
And then she isn't screaming anymore, but whispering: "But that's okay, Father. I forgive you. I forgive you of all your sins. And so to show my forgiveness... I offer you this kindness."
The cut across the throat is surgeon-quick and precise. Blood spurts, splattering her robes.
"Aung wanted me to draw this out. Give you suffering beyond compare in a full ritual. But I'm not capable of such a thing; I'm too weak. And so my forgiveness, and the suffering I bless you with as you move to your next life, are but meager things. I'm sorry. I wish I could do more."
Masumi keeps talking. She says everything: everything she had ever wanted to say to him, but had been too afraid to. Everything nonsensical, meaningless observation that runs through her head. She keeps perfectly still as she talks and talks, her voice slowly fading in strength.
She keeps talking long after Roshi dies.
Aung keeps you on the ropes for half an hour, reducing the approach to the Estate to perforated slag. Eventually you chance that you can survive her attacks head on, and run straight through a cloud of obsidian flechettes. They lacerate you a thousand ways, but you keep going.
Silver blood paints the ground, stains your shredded clothes. Your wounds scab over in brass, bones re-knitting with metal, and you race away, leaving her behind; she races after you, but you have momentum on your side. You reach the shrine first and break down the door.
Vashra Roshi lay dead in a sacrificial circle. A young woman stands over his corpse.
"What..."
Masumi turns around, and you do not recognize her.
You do not recognize her eyes, stretched wide, as if they see too much and nothing at all. You do not recognize the adrenaline twitch of her cheek, tugging spastically back to make sudden. split-second smiles. You do not recognize her posture, terrified but liberated, paralyzed by confusion.
Aung arrives a moment later, and pats you on your cheek. You're too dumbstruck to move.
"Sister Aung," Masumi says curiously, "who is he?"
This concludes Arc 1 of Bleeding Hearts
---
Who are you?
[] Vashra Tesaki.[/i] No, that's not your name anymore.
[] Write in what your new name is, what it means, and why you pick it. Pick something in keeping to the naming conventions previously established, or to those of Exalted 3e: wuxia, anime, myths etc. are all valid inspiration. Keep it in aesthetic, basically; I'm not calling anybody "John" or what have you.
