[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars V. Ascensum (l)

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars V: Ascensum

(l)

Saturday, May 12, 708 CR


Charles felt the walls pressing tightly against 
them, but there always seemed just enough room 
for them to slip through. He did his best to 
ignore the walls of the chasm as they wended 
through its depths; his Master showed no concern 
for the tightness and nearness of either face of 
rock. But to the rat there was a strange threat 
in its substance. He felt a vague sense of 
trespass with each step and fear that at any 
moment the walls would shut out the glimpse of 
sky overhead and collapse upon him.

The fear burned within him and he drew his arms 
and legs in more tightly to the center of his 
Master's shadow. The path was coated with lush 
grass beneath them despite the ascending walls, 
and these blades sizzled at his touch. He did not 
even turn to see if they would grow back as the 
grass beneath the feet of those crushed beneath 
stone had done for fear of his snout brushing against the stone cliff.

Like the previous chasm, this one ended without 
warning. They stood at the beginning of a new 
terrace. The edge of the mountain was framed by a 
line of bushes and trees whose branches stretched 
overhead in a profusion of autumn colors mixed 
with blossoms that sang of spring. The leaves and 
blossom petals lifted from the branches to dance 
in the air, brilliant and unbearable in the sun's 
penetrating light, until they painted a palette 
of color through the air richer than any tapestry 
or painting could conceive. Both descended to the 
ground which was lush once more with grass and 
fitted with stones gradually ascending another 
incline. Yet despite the abundance carpeting the 
ground it never seemed deep enough to drown the 
grass, and the trees only seemed to produce more 
of both. Their generosity could not be exhausted.

With them and through the air the sound of 
delicate voices reached them, and Charles 
strained to understand the words uttered in a language he had so often heard.


Et die tertio nuptiae factae sunt in Kanna Galeanae et erat mater Yasua ibi.

Vocatus est autem ibi et Yasuas et discipuli eius ad nuptias.

Et deficiente vino dicit mater Yasua ad eum vinum non habent.

Et dicit ei Yasuas quid mihi et tibi est mulier nondum venit hora mea.

Dicit mater eius ministris quodcumque dixerit vobis facite.


He knew the words and had heard them many times 
before, yet their sense escaped him. Charles felt 
that their meaning had somehow been stolen from 
him. He knew he heard each syllable correctly 
even if there was a subtle inconsistency in tone 
and delivery as if the wind itself were carrying 
the words, each one arriving a moment too soon or 
a moment too late. They were important words, 
words that framed and gave purpose to the terrace 
upon which they now stood. In his frustration, he 
grasped the back of his Master's cloak and pulled 
the fabric tight in his hands.

You trod upon mysteries sealed from time 
immemorial, Núrodur. You will not understand many 
things you see because it is not for you to 
understand. But I understand and will guide you. 
Do you fear what it is you hear?

I should know it, Master. I... remember it but cannot see it.

It is a story, beloved Núrodur. It is one where 
the good of another is celebrated and rejoiced. 
It is the surrender of the good of the self for 
the good of another. It is giving beyond all 
measure. It is the example and pattern for all 
who pass through this place. For those who abide 
here have spurned the good of others, have 
seethed at their blessings, and looked with 
grudging hatred on the benefits and good fortune 
of others, taking every opportunity to run them 
down or deprive them of their happiness. Such is not your self, Núrodur.

Charles felt the thoughts come to him so 
seamlessly that he could no longer discern his 
own from that of his Master's. And yet he also 
felt a deep sense of unworthiness. How much had 
they come through already, and how much had his 
Master risked for his benefit? He trembled and 
fell to his knees, a blaze filling him so that the ground smoked beneath him.

Nor you, Master. You have given so much for me to 
bring me thus far. I fear I can never repay you what is your due.

But you do, Núrodur. Now come. Let me guide you 
and lead your steps. Our ascent must continue.

He rose to his feet once more and the grass, 
darkened to cinder by his tainted presence, 
spread forth its green again; even the leaves 
gold and red that had shriveled spread forth as 
if they were fresh fallen from the branch. With 
his first steps the sound of the voice in the air 
faded until there was nothing but a pleasant 
silence. The terrace stretched forward around the 
mountain, always turning to the left as it 
coursed its way upwards, though the angle was so 
shallow that it seemed the horizon claimed the 
path before it made its turn. With the trees 
lining the edge he could no longer see the vast 
ocean; only the rich blue of the sky and the 
burning sun within were visible apart from the mountain itself.
They did not travel far before another voice 
began whispering in the air. Only four words, but 
they repeated over and over again. Each 
invocation was subtle different than the last as 
if they were being spoken by every soul that 
abode on that mountain one after other.


Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...

Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...

Vobis diligite inimicos vestros...


The words made him look to his Master and his 
snout creased a smile. Despite the shadow casting 
a gray pall over him he felt he could see his 
Master more clearly and with greater detail than 
the surrounding path. His long black hair was 
smooth and shimmered with silver; each strand was 
so perfectly aligned that it did not seem a 
collection of thousands of fibers but a single 
piece that graced his back. His ears came to 
sharp points that were aligned with a precision 
that was the envy of any geometer. His skin was 
smooth and pearl white that reveled in its own 
illumination. Though he gazed forward the rat 
knew the priceless blue of his eyes and savored 
it as the only blue he loved. His garment, 
touched by the rat but unburned, was an 
effervescent white with no seam or stitch to mar its perfection.

In whose shadow would he rather be?

The voice in the air continued its recital, 
though the words shifted so that his own 
attention wandered about the sward. Their ascent 
had finally brought them into the company of 
others making their way upward. Sharing the 
terrace with them were more people than he could 
count, each of them draped in a long gray cloak 
and each of them fumbling their way forward, arms 
outstretched to feel at the air, while others had 
collapsed on the ground and crawled. Some managed 
to head in the right direction, while others 
bounced off the mountain's face, and others 
tangled themselves in the trees. Yet none managed 
to slip past the trees and fall down the steep 
slope to the terrace below. They had arrived here 
and could not go back, despite their fumbling steps and blind groping.

It took the rat a few minutes to determine why 
the people here stumbled about. One of them was 
crawling in their direction with head lifted and 
ears turned at the sound of the sizzling grass 
beneath Charles's toes. Like the rest he was 
covered from head to toe in a heavy gray cloak 
but it was not the cloak obscuring his vision. 
Much like a falcon in training his eyes were sewn 
shut by iron wire. The letter “P” was inscribed 
in his wrinkled forehead six times. Charles 
almost tripped over his own feet as he stared at 
the man's face, noting the way his muscles 
twitched and lips moved. Words came from the 
man's tongue, words in a language that he knew 
and understood without his Master's aid.

“The fields on the other side of the stream 
always grow fresher and lusher! My field is 
strewn with rocks! How I wish to heave them all 
across the stream. How I wish to spew salt from 
my lips at his crops. The sight of it makes me livid for all to see. Livid!”

Others spoke as well and the rat flinched from 
their voices, grateful that grasping blind man 
was left behind as they continued. But the 
multitudes would not be silent and he could not shut out their voices.

“How could he be accepted as a knight! He has no 
skill only family to speak for him!”

“I spit on every stone he has ever stepped upon!”

“I will never take a coin from that one's hand; 
they must be ill-gotten for a wretch like he could never earn it on his own.”

“Ah, to have lush fur like she; I cannot see it 
without wanting to shave it all!”

This last made the rat's head turn, for it could 
only be spoken by a Keeper, but in the midst of 
so many bodies moving to and fro up the gentle 
incline he could not find any sign of beastly 
countenance. But even with that he knew none of 
the voices and soon he felt himself drowning in 
them. Charles put his hands to his ears and 
pressed them tightly against his head.

Unlike the previous terrace the stone steps 
showed no images. Nor were there any statues but 
there were several large rocks that rose up in 
the midst of the path; if there were rhyme or 
reason behind their position he could not tell. 
One would block a section of trees from view, 
while another seemed to be a boulder fallen from 
the heights above. None of them were directly in 
the path his Master chose, and so Charles could only see them from a distance.

The terrace itself seemed to narrow and widen as 
if the mountain itself were breathing. Yet the 
number of gray-cloaked blind men and women did 
not diminish, and they pressed close to his 
Master's shadow many times though not one of them 
ever fell within it. Charles hissed at those who 
came close and whose voices he could not keep 
out, but slowly the sound of them began to wane. 
His ears felt hard beneath his grip, though they 
yielded to his touch and obediently remained 
against the top of his head, even after he lifted his hands.

A long stretch of the terrace was strewn with 
upthrust rocks that seemed fingers pointing to 
the sky and into this they finally had to weave. 
Against one of the rocks was a woman with long, 
dark hair. Her eyes, sewn shut like the rest were 
sunken against her protruding cheeks so that she 
had a skeletal appearance. There was a menace to 
her face. Her lips were contorted with a 
bitterness that seemed to cling to her much as 
his Master's shadow swept up around the rock and 
to her feet. Charles gasped when he recognized her.

She will not hear you but you may try, Núrodur.

Charles stepped toward her who fell beneath his 
Master's shadow and lifted his gaze. Around the 
iron wire sealing her eyes shut tears pressed 
forth. The scars that had once gouged hideous 
gaps in her cheeks were no more but he still knew 
her. His voice broke the stillness of the rocks 
and almost made her head turn. “Agathe.”

Her lips pursed and a moan escaped them. She 
dropped her head forward, hands grasping at the 
rock against which she pressed herself. “Why? Oh 
why? Men.. Men have everything. Power, privilege, 
freedom to decide and choose everyones' fate; all 
of it belongs to men. Women are left to their 
whims, powerless beyond the House, voiceless 
against the least of men! No woman is ever good 
enough for the world, only the House. Only men are given the World!”

“Agathe! How can you be here?”

“No, do not stand for me! No, do not stand for me you filthy man!”

Charles grimaced, as her attention seemed to be 
on something else in the distance. It was only 
her eyes sewn shut, not her ears. How could she 
not hear his voice? “Agathe! You murdered Wessex! 
He suffers under the hideous rule of Tallakath!”

Her voice almost cackled before it began to 
shriek with such ferocity that the rat almost 
stepped back. “I do not want your kindness! You 
boorish man! Stop it! I am not feeble! I am not!”

“Wessex was a good man! He will never know peace. 
Why are you here? Why you!” Charles lifted his 
arms and felt his hands sizzle in his fury. But 
before he could reach out for her he recalled his 
Master's words from before. There was nothing he 
could do and it was not his place to do it to 
bring anything more to this woman. He let his 
arms fall to his sides and shook his head. “My 
friend Wessex will never know peace. And here you 
are bemoaning some man? You are pathetic, Agathe. You are to be pitied.”

“I hate man! I hate him! Hate him! Hate him! 
Hate...” Agathe's anger seemed ready to explode 
in some violent eruption. Charles remembered well 
seeing the frightening power she once wielded as 
she chased them across the frozen wasteland of 
the Barrier Mountains. It was her spell that had 
left him living stone for nearly five months.

But there was no more power in her. The anger 
fell to anguish as more tears squeezed between 
her sealed eyelids and her face fell into her 
hands. Her choking sobs wracked her body with 
spasms. Charles blinked in astonishment at the 
words babbled in that dereliction. “I hate being 
a woman. Why wasn't I a man? Why was I so much 
less; just a woman? Oh, Zagrosek, why? Why?”

And then like a wisp of air, she slipped down 
from the rock and crawled away and upwards 
weeping. Charles stared at her until he lost 
sight of her in the midst of the stones and the 
other penitents trapped and blind. For a moment 
he felt something stirring in his essence, some 
measure of pity and not derision. But then he 
recalled Wessex who spent every waking moment 
keeping away from the monstrous gardeners in the 
zoo of pestilence that was Tallakath's domain and 
all sympathy for the Runecaster was erased.

“May you remain here until the end of all ages, Agathe.”

She is not your concern, Núrodur. Do not allow 
yourself to seek a justice beyond you. For though 
justice is your call you are not permitted to 
strike beyond certain boundaries, is this not so?

It is, Master. Forgive me for my anger. But this 
one hurt so many that are dear to me. And those 
she hurt suffer worse. You saw what Wessex endures!

Do you believe she gave willing consent to all 
that her hands wrought? Or was she controlled by another?

Charles sighed and lowered his gaze into his 
Master's shadow at his feet. He could not see 
where the shadow ended and his toes began. It was 
the will of another doing all that I blame her for, Master.

Without consent can you find her worthy? No.

Charles thought nothing more as he followed his 
Master through the remaining rocks and up the 
incline. The many people surrounding them no 
longer crawled about but reclined against the few 
rocks and the side of the mountain. The stone was 
a uniform gray that matched the color of their 
cloaks. Even the trees, once delightful in their 
colors, seemed muted and did not offer forth their bounty with such abandon.

While the incline did increase, the slope never 
became so steep that the rat was forced to all 
fours to navigate. But he did crouch lower as 
they ascended step by step upward. The terrace 
narrowed until all that remained was a path no 
more than ten steps across. The trees dwindled 
until they were only bushes overlooking a 
perfectly smooth descent toward the previous 
terrace and the plain and forest below. Charles 
peered over the edge for a time wondering why it 
was that he only ever seemed to see one side of 
the peak. What was on other side, or was there 
truly only the one side and the curve of the 
mountain a necessary illusion masking its infinite extent?

Though the people in gray cloaks were not as 
numerous, they still huddled against the 
mountainside. Not a one of them was spared the 
iron wire holding their eyes fast, though from 
all tears darkened their cheeks. Their bodies 
were frail and yet there was a suppleness to them 
that gave their motions a certain purpose and 
elegance. As he studied them he saw two rise up 
from the wall, each gripping the other on the 
shoulders, and then the pair helped each other 
scale the stone steps toward the lip overhead. 
Neither gained an inch on the other, despite 
their best efforts to push each other ahead of themselves.

Voices filled the air again, but this time 
Charles could not make sense of what they said. 
His Master seemed not to hear the voices; and if 
he did he paid them little heed. There was a 
strange but beguiling melody that coursed through 
them and for a moment he tried to lift one ear to 
capture it but the flesh was stuck fast to his 
head. By the time he raised one arm to pry it lose the song was gone.

The path flattened as they came over the lip of 
the incline and before them stood another fissure 
and another being of light wrapped from bottom to 
top in a wreath of eyes and six silken wings. The 
rays of light scattered across the grassy field, 
reflecting from every stone at the same angle 
with which it struck. The two men who had climbed 
before him fell down on their knees before that 
strange being of eyes. Its wings brushed across 
their faces each in turn and both gasped and sang 
with joy. Another “P” vanished from their foreheads.

His Master and he walked past the being of eyes 
without pausing. The creature – something Charles 
knew he should know but could not name – noted 
them but made no effort to stop them from 
reaching the fissure leading upward to the next 
terrace. Charles shrank from what little gaze it 
offered and clutched to his Master's robe. He 
shut his eyes as they stepped into the gap and 
felt only the shadow at his feet.

Yet in a way he still saw the path before them. 
His Master's thoughts gently intruded into his 
own, and what he saw was, after a fashion, also 
visible to the Núrodur. It was not the same but 
akin to gazing out of a high window. He could see 
a border of darkness around the scene as if he 
were set back from the window by a few paces, but 
the path with enclosing fissure was clear. A 
quiet determination guided his steps and he 
allowed himself to be carried along by it. No 
discomfort touched him as the walls pressed inward.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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