Aestar ignit iluda

The wind carried with it ash and sand, blight that clung to the corneas, even behind the spectacles. Neverborn pulled shir cloak about, staring through the green glass, crouched behind an ebony outcropping. The rocks had progressively darkened in hue as the mountain journey ascended; yet now they were lightening to a soft grey and emitting a light green glow. Hand to the stone, a light hum, vibrations at the surface level.

Three weeks. The words of the seer seemed to rise from the rock. Seven days and back across snowy refuse and sheer deathstep. Shir legs dangling at points, only white ash beneath, hands clinging. Each day’s moon seemed to wane, as if the years of struggle were never to pay off. One last chance, Neverborn. Shir assembled a shelter and dabbed shir eyes with an oily cloth, peeling the dust from, ever-wishing for lashes like other kin. Damsel was never wont to clean thir eyes, for thir never stepped leather-boot out of the Clave. Only Neverborn, the final attempt.

Dark slunk in and Neverborn observed the stars. A seven-pointed chart arose on the spectacles, identifying whatever they had to, confirming the location. No time for sleep, Neverborn. Shir unsheathed a ruby-hilted blade, last of its kind, sheer speed over accuracy. The blade danced in bronze, uncased, and speaking. Neverborn ignored its dialogues and left the shelter where it was. Six hours.

—Emergema caverns are dangerous. Ash density in surrounding regions is untenable. If you do not turn back now, you are dead.

—Thank you. I’m aware.

The blade had spoken aloud as long as shir had owned it.

—What can you tell me about this part of the Emergema?

—Toxic. Toxic. Dense with ash. You will die if you do not turn back.

—That doesn’t help. Tell me what to expect beneath.

—Emergema caverns are dangerous.

—That’s enough.

—Emergema caverns are toxic.

Shir stunted the sword within its shell.

The trek from the shelter to the root of the star chart made clear the entrance. A crevasse shaped as the Lone Cunt—only an elder’s memory, the birthing abyss—a hanging vertical eye, its edges clean, an opening in want and heat. Neverborn reached beneath shir cloak and eased shir hand just into shir own access, collecting a hand’s cup of inner froth. Shir dabbed it about the aperture, ten feet tall, climbing to the smooth grey stone at the top to spread the last of the spume. Shir engorged the final threads shirself, gazing up at Massia, teal moon of the borderland, and softened a prayer: Aestar ignit iluda.

Neverborn reached out and in shir seventh nail lanced a fragment of ash, chasing shir froth past the lips, dissolving across the tongue and remnants left to crawl inside. Once the haze had passed, found shirform in icen caverns, shivering and clutching so shir unformed ports were shelt. Leather-boot upon a slip-stream, and much unlike graceful Damsel, Neverborn flew sprawled some clicks further, holding shir head. Unnatural, to walk upon the ice in leather-boot; removed feet, so shir prickles of the sole clung to the glossy slide, ekt., ekt. In this, Neverborn caught shirself deeper and deeper yet, a scentless tingle arising, that shir had known.

With leatherless steps arrived Neverborn at darker tomb; shir slid a fuel strife into the lock on shir wrist, and dazzling aurorer became the scene; the deeper shir delved, a sense of impossibility, for the peak holding the aperture was not long, and yet shir seemed to be ascending still. Then, a door: the old iron, wrought once, now forgotten. Shir tapped it, prodded it, utilised seven nails to pry, and nothing. Shir pulled the sword.

—This is the Emergema. You are not safe.

—What is this material’s weakness?

Shir touched it to the door.

—It has none but time itself.

—Idiot answer.

Sheathed. So much for that, Neverborn. One last chance and it’s near passed yet.

Shir observed the angles of this cavern, shir leather-boot attached again, all over; aurorer clearing the hidden, yet falty gage spasmed and shattered; again, the darkness. With further taps to the rock around the door, it was established different; with clinging, as of the seventh nail, a circle was discerned and unlocked, a click and hiss viewing further to a strange panel, seven nails to be caressed. Neverborn inserted.

As if ash had been imbibed, a haze: yet no journey forward, this one flew backwards, a sense of regression; Neverborn was unborn once more, and further-further, until the visions were in full force: ships, those used to sail the seas of ash, yet with wings to rise above a crystal lake of azure; the barges fled a great groan from beneath the plane. An eye that glew, and glows, Lone Cunta, Her: Emergema.

—State yourself.

A voice, cold, calculated, yet speaking clear language, with no source. Neverborn was awoken from the pseudohaze.

—I am Neverborn.

—The genetic memory is correct, yet you are unlike the others. State yourself further.

—From the Clave. I was unborn.

—I know not what unborn implies, it is a contradiction; further, I know not the Clave.

—The Clave seeks something, and I am a messenger.

—State your tribes.

—Banti, Methian.

—Unrecorded primarily; only secondary. Linked to Dufac, Lacui.

—Correct, although we are enemies.

—You are accepted.

Great iron torn apart at a middle seam: and beyond, a pulsing emerald, sapphire, ruby; material like unother. Neverborn stepped forth. Damsel’s smile, curled. How improper, yet shir eight nail vibrated, a reflux of the sex. Damsel’s belly and its curious blocked and knotted exit, those other appendages Neverborn had not inherited. Massia: Aestar ignit iluda. Five hours, now, it seemed, before recollection became impossible. Follow the steps, Neverborn.

—State your seek.

—We call it Nerth.

—Energy; power: strength.

—Your knowledge of our culture is impressive. I ask you: state yourself.

—Samhiall.

—Samhiall is an ancient name; said the sword from its sheath.

—Your companion is tekka.

—Tekka?

—You can carry your companion.

—Show yourself, Samhiall.

—I am not of physicality. This is my voice.

—Is this the Emergema apati?

—Invalid.

—Excuse?

—Invalid.

—Then: where is Nerth?

—It is sought to remove?

—To return to Clave.

—Ah; said Samhiall. Enter further. I will guide with the willo: just look now.

A white glisten like the stars within the pulse, to continue. Neverborn, continue. Into the pulsing caverns of chroma-spill, a creaking cold even deeper to shir core. Damsel. Thir was chilled easily; here, Neverborn would cloak thir, and for once without punishment. Damsel’s lips, thir shined apple green, and its lovely froth; caught with the evidence upon shir own aperture. Five hours, Neverborn.

This cave system was unlike any other shir had witnessed. It was constructed of the rarest iron, thin-holed grates on all sides, beyond that shadow, and a salt-drip from above; salient upon shir uncloaked hairless head. Neverborn removed spectacles to see all shirself, in natural hue; the trilogy of colours fading and waving to one another, in constant passover, an illuminated eternal death. The caverns were corridors; the iron wrought in perfect cubular geometry. Shir touched a finger to the saline crusted walls and tasted. Sharp. Hack, cough, spit the invader to the iron, and let the inner systems take care of the rest. Five hours, five hours. Perhaps, now, four, Neverborn. One last chance. The salt-drip clung to every smooth leather pore, decay. Samhiall’s wisps of fosfar connecting the hallways, ever deeper, futher, ekt., ekt.

—Is it safe?

—You may not need of your weapon, but you may bear arms for comfort.

—The saline environment is toxic.

—Be quiet, blade.

—Do you know of the origin of your arms?

—Unknown.

—Yes. Unknown now, not for all time.

—You know of it?

—It is named Faroz.

—The guiding moon?

—Unknown.

—Our third moon. You surely have seen it.

—I have seen nothing.

—It is?

—Indeed.

—What is the purpose of Nerth, Samhiall? Have others sought it?

—Several. It is difficult to access. You would be the first to survive.

One last chance, Neverborn.

—The purpose of what you know as Nerth is exact as its name.

—Very; stick to your puns.

—I am incapable of punning.

The constant drip of the salt, and that scentless fragrance, it was inside Neverborn stronger than before. A lineage connection, blood and ash. Almost twinned forms in frothy embrace, one oft covered in soot, the other clean as sapphire.

—Does the ash enter this place?

—Never.

—Then… it is safe. For habitation.

—All sources of sustenance have been depleted. Further, the liquid is salt.

Neverborn’s blade quivered, yet stayed silent. Swept other hand across shir baldest of heads, seven nails caressing.

—Watch now the willo.

Samhiall’s light pricked up in a curving line, indicating less strict architecture; mineral? Neverborn continued.

—This is a long path.

—Thank you, Samhiall.

—Of course.

—This direction is dangerous.

—Dangerous how, sword?

—Saline toxicity, and one life form.

—Samhiall, what is the life form?

—There is nothing within.

—There is something within.

—Be quiet, tekka. I am talking to your master.

—Saline environment dangerous. For safety I shall become silent. Master, be aware.

—I’m holding you.

This curving corridor was absurd. Shir saw no end, and its curve was mild, seeming surely to lead back around and directly through itself if not for decline; deeper, Neverborn. The grates were served; now pure iron was the material. Where on the plane shir was now, was unsaid, could not be said. This: last chance; familiar from six before. What should be pleasant; lack of ash, wind; sinister. Thus, Neverborn, a last chance hard earned.

Then as if never, came a turn, a split; shir followed the willo lefthand, and before long the splits shifted to a labyrinth, of ancient design, of course. Such textbooks had illustrations; an almost organic texture of iron. Neverborn reached again beneath shir dressing and collected froth.

—Your froth will guide the way back; said the sword.

—I’m aware.

—I shall guide your way back; said Samhiall.

—I’m aware.

Spume smeared shining pale, such as true ash, contrasting the pulse and the willo alike. Drape your froth as you continue, Neverborn.

As the trail smattered the wall, one of shir nails caught on something. Closer inspection: some kind of portal.

—What is this, Samhiall?

—That is a door.

—How does it open?

It opened. A smooth glide, a soft thud as it slotted into access. Beyond, a large space, such as one in the Clave; feeding, or training. Yet in here, a cornucopia revealed by the willo. Neverborn picked one from the wall. It resembled a shorn-off crossbow, no limbs, no riser; ancient.

—How does this release?

—Fire.

—Aestar?

—Incorrect.

—May I take this?

—You may carry it, but do not fire.

—How many rooms are there like this one?

—Many. In total: mila.

—Hm. I don’t know that number.

—It is many.

—How far is the Nerth?

—There is a life form; said the sword.

—It is near; said Samhiall.

Neverborn, proceed. Parsing the last strike, and where it collapsed. No memories of image, yet. Yet, hesitant.

—I am hungry. It is the moisture of this cavern. May I eat?

—This is not the room for dining. Yet, you may.

From depleting knapsack, drawn a sraw of carrion horse. Final meal, Neverborn—all the signs in place. The rotten mare dissolving through shir rotten teeth. Damsel, gleaming gob, the give and push of one another’s teeth. To touch your self in the ashen winter. Unforgivable. From whence shir came, yet thir trespassed, holier than respect. Disavowed in recompense, now one more wish, an attempt, worth, semper ilyu, then only with Nerth in each nail, grasping. Errand of the attempt. The filly’s gangrenous liver bitter, nourishment.

—Samhaill, how many have you been here?

—If i say mila plus, you would misunderstand. So: before. I remain from before.

    —Then Nerth is of my bond?

—From my understanding of your language: yes.

—Let’s go, sword.

—This direction is dangerous.

Neverborn returned to the labyrinth, stunted crossbow attached to the cloak; shir collected more froth to spread a clear line back. The walls were still as much organic as metallic; and a breathlessness to the place. Looked back, and the trail did not show. It had sept into the mass, the living thing. No metal at all.

—Samhaill. Are you here, in form?

—No. What you are feeling is only tekka. Do not be alarmed.

—Sword. This.

Touch to the flesh.

—Does it live?

—There is a life form, but this is dead skin.

Yet, breath. Deeper. Dead skin, animated by breath.

Neverborn, onwards.

It was only within shir, the sense of the hallways of leather waste waning, and shir knew it, yet it was at last blasted-apart entrance that gripped shir, the doors of iron torn asunder, from not shir’s doing for it should be yet again a direction of the attempt.

—Of that life form, sword?

—Distance unsure. Saline toxicity at lethal levels: one hour.

Fewer than that by now, withal.

From within the connecting gape, the willo enlit a patch, red and blue gem markers a straight across bridge. First steps, and that first ghost past shir, a dash to the willo patch, a construct of iron, from with a jade vibration. Below the bridge, Neverborn drew shirself together; there, an aeon down, burgeoning breaths, the source.

It was a shaft-like chamber, two bridges connecting in the middle, the iron construct. With no rails either side, Neverborn had to clumsy-crawl to truly peek: the roiling, ravaging root of the cold, longing breaths. It stared back, a gaze unborn, fertile to the last, and it was the last, egg; azure as tales of the sky in patches, vastly a green across all chroma, Aestar ignit iluda, a solitary natural wound. Lone Cunta iluda! cried Neverborn. Response: only the weary wheeze.

Damsel, sisterself grasped in fourteen nails. Attempts past collected, and each the same. Something warned of the sword, and upon turning seeing it. Enemy yet unknown; surely an ally of Samhiall. A clear betrayal. Yet, the Nerth now in view. Neverborn, there you are.

—I am not permitted to let you leave with what you term the Nerth. All tekka must remain with a facility, and that includes your blade.

Samhiall, terse. Colder than the shifting air.

—And if I rescind them and go?

—I am not permitted to let you leave. You would bring more Banti, Methian; Dufac, Lacui. I have enjoyed observing you, and you are complicated in time for one of yours. This being your seventh incarnation, each aloof, perhaps, perhaps not. This, I would expect, your last.

—How so?

—You are septal beings, and you are far from the first.

—Very. Then, how will you slay me?

—You remember.

Neverborn ran to the iron construct, yet tripped part way, unprotected skull striking against the metal. At once, a blood gushed, bubbled forth from the sagging wound. Shir stood, grasped the Nerth—for it was a glowing green lump much like a small rock, soft and humming upon its surface, etched across forgotten runes—and stood sword apart, legs stretched.

Each death the same: the unliving beast would snarl, striking from the dark; before the sword could swing, teeth ensconsced, separate. Could not get the knack, even in those last moments.

—Life form approaching.

Tekka blade singing now, directly alerting the beast. In recall, it was sleek iron, panther-like, yet grown out with… crystals. The image past misty. The ur-crossbow hum.

Damsel, perfect in silk, seven deaths from thir bosom. Neverborn, yet found, loved, between them shared. Nerth. Through shir nails, pure Aestar. Each time, shir had fought the beast and died; or, else, tried to flee and cut down. When in release, the ur-crossbow would sieze; cut down, again. Nerth, yet, carried with it…

Damsel, glory in silver, seven lives to spend separate. Neverborn through the green glass shaped the form of the assailant, and conceded. Ur-crossbow pelted javelin-like, true; robes flung forward, tangling the unflinching beast but briefly, now shir tangle of unborn limbs on full display to none; and the wound, the one of shir own, from which was torn—

Damsel, thir noble scion thirself, seven nails scratch farewell. Neverborn thrust Nerth within shir unbirth-wound, from which the foamy succus and frothy sterile hypha pulsed and gurgled, splashing around the inserted vibrating orb. Aestar ignit iluda. There would be no return. Damsel, self-sister, matron, lover. Return indeed a paradox: but not in form, and else, a greater Cunt called. Alone down there, the bottom of the world, unfathomed.

Neverborn leather-boot lurched to the edge, Nerth sloshing around in exposed lower guts, blood smattered across shir goggles, gangly blue limbs furious. The beast, uncovered, all pulsing leather skin and mirrored iron, sightless, seeking, a pounce, its fated strike. Below, the still-living glowing unfathomable.

Neverborn stepped forth, clad in but leather-boot, goggle, sword in nail. The Lone Cunt, sacred scathe, mother of fluid and form, below. Nerth to wake Her, Aestar ignit iluda. Or else, in error, surrendered shirself to the plane’s innard’s; swallowed, digested, and then. Never the less, Neverborn, better to be born once, than never at all.

Shir offered a final prayer. Past Clave, Damsel, seven separations, six deaths: one last chance. The eye opened, ribosomic softsight, beyond blight and ash: Emergema. Neverborn felt its breath, and breathed with it.