Path of Dragons 18 - Chapter 36 - Nexus Points (Patreon)

“You think I am evil,” the Poet stated.  Pointedly, it was not a question, and just as pointedly, Elijah did not respond.  The Poet went on, “I accept your judgement.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Because it is inevitable,” the Poet stated.  “The weight of my power does not allow me to think in terms of right or wrong.  My ends justify themselves.”

“Ends and means,” Elijah muttered, standing on a cushion of air.  Over the past few years, he’d worked long and hard on his ability to manipulate ethera.  Most of that effort had been devoted to the satellite colonies and their surrounding enchantments, but at some point, he’d also begun to apply the lessons he’d learned to his equipment.

What he’d found was that the traits they possessed were much more rigid than his abilities.  However, if he practiced long and hard enough, he could affect their expression.  The most obvious one was Cloud Step, which he’d used more than any of the other active traits.

At first, he could only extend the duration to a little more than a second – which was better than normal, which was limited to the time it took him to take a single step.  But now?  He could keep it going for hours at a time.

Doing so was bad for the equipment, and he could feel the strain on the enchantments.  One day, they might unravel after hard use.  However, the advantage of his gear was that the vast majority of it came from the system as rewards for dungeons or Primal Realms.  As such, they were much more durable than what anyone on Earth could create, save for the true elites like Carmen.

Even Carmen was restrained by her available materials, though.

The end result was that he could use Cloud Step for however he wanted, and it wouldn’t even begin to truly unravel for decades.  Maybe centuries.

But Elijah wasn’t thinking about that at the moment.  Instead, his attention remained on the twisted mass of stone and death that the tower of Bas’eltion had become. 

He hadn’t set out to visit the terrible landmark.

But his wings had taken him there all the same.  For hours, he’d been hovering in place, miles away, and staring at the thing.  And that was before the Poet had decided to show up.

Since then, more than a day had passed in silence.

Throughout, the Poet’s presence progressively infuriated Elijah.  Logically, he understood the problem.  If the Poet put those souls to rest, his work within Orveth Kaal would unravel.  So, he’d left them to slowly fade away, leaving the twisted knot of horror to tie the world together. 

It was symbolic.

But it was also literal.

Even Elijah, who’d never been much for poetry – outside of music, at least – could feel as much.  So it was with the Poet’s power.  In some ways, it was all-powerful.  He could rewrite reality with a song.  But in others, it was limiting, and if he missed a beat, everything would go awry.

On the scale he worked, that meant the entire planet would likely cease to exist.

Elijah knew all of that.  The Poet had explained as much.  He was also willing to make that sacrifice.  Or he thought he was.

In reality, the issue was far from black and white.  He could accept it so long as he wasn’t confronted by the reality of those tortured souls.  But when he felt them?  When he heard their wailing cries? 

It made him want to rip it all apart and abandon Orveth Kaal altogether.

That warring dichotomy ground against Elijah’s spirit, threatening all the while to unravel the surety of his mission.  The only reason he hadn’t taken action was because he knew it would do no good. 

He might’ve been powerful for a demigod, but he could no more affect that twisted knot of a tower than he could defeat the Poet in battle.  Which was to say that he wasn’t even an insect compared to the dragon beside him.  A grain of sand, perhaps.  But even that was giving himself too much credit.

But no amount of logic could assuage his anger.  No justification could lessen his guilt. 

So, he stared.

And he hated himself for not being able to do more.

His labors had helped him to ignore it.  Imal’s return had provided another distraction.  But in the weeks since, Elijah’s thoughts had returned, over and over again, to the sight hovering twenty miles away.

“I can’t do anything,” he told himself.

The Poet said, “You cannot.”

“How do I get past that, then?  How do I ignore the screams?” he wondered.

“You do not,” the Poet stated.  “You never will.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Practice.”

One word.  One very telling answer.  How many times had the Poet committed similar atrocities? 

Then again, did Elijah have any room to judge anyone?  In the past, his own actions had only been limited by his power.  But were they any less horrifying?

The ecosystem within his mind churned, processing everything.  The aftermath didn’t dissipate.  In fact, Elijah wasn’t even sure if it made anything better.  But it was something, and at last, it allowed him to turn away.

“Tell me about the cells,” he said, facing the Poet.  “How do they fit into all of this?”

“Are you certain that they do?”

Elijah ran his hand through his hair.  “I am.”

In fact, he’d based the entire plan around those cells.  The Ethereal Physicists and Engineers had explained bits and pieces to him, but even they weren’t entirely certain how it all worked.  After all, those systems had been built by dragons, and ones who’d built their methods upon tens of thousands of years of iteration.  Hundreds of thousands, perhaps. 

“The cells are not truly cells.  Not entirely,” the Poet responded. “They are nexus points, meant to function on multiple planes of existence.  On one, they are literal cells housing prisoners like me.  On another, they store energy.  On still another, they use that energy to tunnel through the void to allow for the attachment of chains.  In turn, those chains gradually pull the planet toward the Empire of Scale.  When it returns to the empire, the process will be complete.”

“That’s similar to what my people told me.”

“I assure you that they grasp only a small part of the design.”

“I’m aware.  But I don’t need to know the chemical formula for water to know it’s wet,” Elijah pointed out.

“Quaint.”

Elijah was about to respond, but then he thought better of insulting the dragon from whom he wanted help.  Instead, he took a breath and explained what he wanted to do and how the cells would be incorporated.

To his credit, the Poet listed to everything before pointing out a few ways Elijah could improve his chances of success. 

“But it can work, right?”

The Poet nodded. “It may.  It will work better if you relocate the main colony.”

“Really?  To one of the cells?” Elijah asked.

“To the core.”

Elijah frowned. “Fungee would die.”

“Perhaps,” the Poet acknowledged.  “Perhaps not.  That organism possesses incredible potential for regeneration.  Cells will die.  The question is if it can rebuild itself more quickly than it is destroyed.”

“He.”

“I will not call a fungal superorganism by gendered terms.”

Elijah wanted to argue, but he didn’t feel it was the time.  Besides, he was well aware that he only existed at the Poet’s whim. If the transcendent wished it, he would be dead before he could even respond.

So, he asked, “It will hurt him, though, won’t it?”

“Of course.  No body cultivation can exist without pain.  How much you are willing to endure will determine your success.  You know this from experience,” the Poet stated.

He didn’t mention that most people took body cultivation in a multitude of short bursts, each one designed to push them a little closer to the edge.  Meanwhile, Elijah’s method was to sprint toward the cliff and leap over, hoping all the while he could survive. 

In his experience, that gave him the best results.

What the Poet had suggested was to subject Fungee to the same strategy and hope that he would survive.

Elijah wasn’t sure he could do that.

He said as much, adding, “He won’t know why he’s being hurt.  He’ll just know…”

“That you hurt him.  Yes.  So it is with parenting.”

“Not in my experience.”

“I have raised thousands of offspring.  You have none.”

“I have three,” Elijah argued, thinking of Callux, Fungee, and Treebie.  None were his by blood, but that didn’t matter.  They were his children all the same.

The Poet shook his head in resignation. “Druids.”  Then, after a moment, he added, “Maturity is pain.  Cultivation is pain.  Growth is –”

“Pain,” Elijah interrupted.  “I get it.”

“You understand it on a personal level.  Yet you are unwilling to apply that to your…children.”

“I don’t want to see them hurt.”

“Then you will watch them wither and die as weaklings.”

Elijah frowned.

He didn’t necessarily disagree with the assessment.  Cultivation required sacrifice, usually in the form of personal pain.  It was one thing to apply that to himself and quite another to do so to his children.  Or to anyone he loved.

Especially Fungee, who lacked the capacity to understand.  Callux could at least comprehend the reasoning.  But Fungee?

“Your plan will not work unless you do this,” the Poet pointed out. 

Elijah looked away, his eyes skating across the ruins of the once-magnificent tower.  He couldn’t actually hear the screams from so far away, but he could still feel them in his memory.  Calling out.  Begging for release that would not come.

It was a poignant reminder that all actions had consequences.  All great feats had a cost.  Normally, Elijah paid the cost himself.  This time, he would ask Fungee to do it.

Would the fungal colony benefit? Yes.  Did that make it any easier to contemplate?  Not at all.  Was Elijah still considering it?

He hated that he was.

He also knew that he would hate himself if he didn’t.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.

“Yes, you do,” the Poet assured him.

“Is it the only way?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Do you know another?”

“Also no.”

Elijah ran his hand through his hair and let out a sigh. 

“Can you communicate with…Fungee?” asked the Poet.

“I can.”

Not as he would with another person.  He couldn’t speak to the fungal colony, but he could communicate well enough to get a point across.  And in doing so, he could also determine Fungee’s emotions.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

“Then your path is clear,” the Poet stated.

“Is it?”

“Ask…him,” the Poet suggested.  “He has some reasoning capability.  Explain the situation.  Describe the pain.  Assure him that he will grow stronger.  Ask him to trust you.  If he consents, move forward with your plan. If he does not…”

“Find another way,” Elijah finished.

“I was going to suggest that you abandon your plan and embrace another,” the Poet pointed out.  “If you do not do this, then you cannot proceed.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to hope that Fungee agrees,” Elijah said.  “Because I won’t do it without his say-so.”

“Druids,” the Poet said again.  Then, he abruptly disappeared.  The weight of his presence remained, though only for a few seconds before it began to dissipate.  Until that moment, Elijah hadn’t realized that the Poet’s aura had contributed greatly to his sense of unease.

Like standing knee-deep in crocodile infested waters.  It was only a matter of time before he found himself on the wrong end of their teeth.

Regardless, Elijah didn’t fully relax.  Instead, he forced himself to stare at the ruins of Bas’eltion for a little longer.  He wanted to remind himself of the consequences of his actions.

He hadn’t sung the song that twisted that tower and its inhabitants into a torturous parody of what it had once been.  But he might as well have.

Finally, he turned away, let Cloud Step dissipate, and shifted into the Shape of the World Serpent.  Then, he headed toward his dolmen where he intended to explain to an innocent fungal colony why he wanted him to consent to torture.