God Within Us

The nightmare of time was swirling and unending. Vasilisa wanted to scream, but found that she had no mouth - no hands, no arms, no body. No eyelids to close against the flood of knowledge. The great current tore her apart in both directions - she saw both memories and futures, things that had come to pass, and that which might yet be changed. Before, it had all come to her in bits and pieces, in small fragments that did not overwhelm the mortal mind - single threads, single instances and visions. Now, they came to her all at once - her own Sight had become a monster, a terrible beast in whose purpose it demanded from her not the mind of a mortal, but of a god. Or at least, the vessel of one.

She forced herself to focus, lest she lose track of her own self and her own history in the midst of the great, continual stream. I am Vasilisa of Belnopyl. I am Vasilisa. I AM.

Then she allowed for her mind to be carried both ways along the stream, the history of humanity, the great bloodline that split apart into infinitesimal branches upon branches. How deep did they go? She looked to the future and saw that there was no end, only seemingly endless growth, endless division.

The burden of the Question grew heavier the further she looked on. She saw the same sins repeating across ages—wrath, hatred, greed—like a cursed refrain. In the caves of primeval times, she saw humans huddling around fires, their eyes filled with fear and suspicion. In the grand cities of the future, the same eyes gleamed with avarice and envy, staring out from behind walls of glass and steel. Despite the passage of millennia, the same dark patterns persisted - they were woven into the very fabric of human existence.

As she grappled with these thoughts, a voice echoed around her, calling from the future and the past at once. Chirlan’s voice sneered in her ear, yet beneath the derision, she sensed a deep, bitter sorrow that only one who had beheld such a sight as the one that lay before her could know.

"Look upon them," Chirlan intoned, his voice resonating through time. "All follies, all vile deeds, yet they repeat them again and again. In circles, neverending."

Vasilisa’s resolve stiffened. "Perhaps, but they also do as much good as evil - there is joy, there is love, in all things."

"And yet it all burns out like a candle in the breeze," Chirlan retorted, "and the cycle begins anew."

"But is that in of itself not something to be admired?" Vasilisa countered. "Struggles and trials mount ever more upon the back of man—even now, I see my own people: plague, famine, civil war, and a new khan, a new horde to the east...but my own people, they will go on..."

She thought of the boyar Vratislav, the burned village of Yerkh. In her vision, the village lay in ruins, a desolate heap of cinders and bone. But then she saw the seasons turn, and soon there was life once more: flowers blooming in the springtime, and people—some old inhabitants, others new—returning to rebuild. They carved their memories into the earth, building up that which could be rebuilt, and building over the bones of that which could not.

"They keep on rebuilding,” she breathed. “Even when it seems like you can never go back to how things were..."

In the blink of an eye, she saw the village reborn, and burnt anew, and reborn yet again, and burnt yet again...

"There is never despair - never surrender. Nothing ever truly dies," she whispered. "Does that not deserve the pity, and the pride of the ones who are most high?"

Chirlan’s presence wavered, his voice less certain now. "You speak of hope, then? Is that what the answer to the plight of all is, at the end of all ends? Hope?"

"Perhaps," she conceded, herself uncertain. "You have waited so long for man to die, but they continue ever on, through everything, through the darkness of their own making, their own failings. Is that not worth something?”

She felt Chirlan at her back, his presence suddenly close. When she turned back however, all she saw was the endless void, stretching on and on in both directions.

How am I to know? Whispered his voice in the distance. I am already dead. But you…you are still alive. So rise, and show me the strength of your hope, your love.

***

Vasilisa opened her eyes, awakening to the taste of ashes in her mouth.

She was wrapped in her tattered cloak, and lying in the arms of another. Over her hovered a blur of faces, twisting and melting into one another from across the ages - the echoes of men and women long dead. When the faces spoke however, the blur settled momentarily to reveal Yesugei, his eyes wide in shock. The nomad princeling's voice sounded faint, distant - the past and the future distorted his form, making it almost impossible to focus on the now.

His hand touched her cheek, and she anchored herself to it, bringing him back into focus through the roiling mask of faces. “Vasilisa,” she heard him say. “You are crying.”

She didn’t bother to wipe away her tears, only taking Yesugei’s hand into her own as she saw the echoes of the past and pasts that never were flashing in Yesugei’s face. Even this nomad princeling could have been a thousand, no, a million other people - possibilities stacked atop other possibilities, yet it was this one that had come to pass.

“I'm crying because you are alive,” she replied. “You are beautiful - so many possibilities…so many outcomes…yet we are living this…both of us are alive. It's beautiful…”

Vasilisa felt a new quickening in her silent heart, and slowly rose to her feet as she cast her eyes about the gloom of the Hollow. In it, she saw the great bloom of life that once filled the chamber - all the life of the world, from the greatest leviathans to the smallest motes, all had been born from the mind of the Mother, her dreams of life given form. It seemed so real - she could feel the warmth, the heavy smell of wild things and of life. Now there was only the cold darkness…the womb of the world was left barren, and all that remained were three of its children, and the bones of thousands of others.

She looked down to see Unukalhai dragging their broken form across the cavern floor. The living star within called to her, and she was reminded of her terrible purpose once more. The Mother’s water, the kiss of fire, the swallowed star…

The dagger she had drowned for lay on the grass near her feet. She scooped it off the ground. Superficially it resembled a dagger, with a curved blade about half as long again as her hand. She traced a finger along the outer curve, and without the slightest sensation drew a line of blood finer than a hair.

The black, oddly gleaming blade was sharper than any steel, and colder than mere glass or crystal had any right to feel. It seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, much like all the crystals of the Apostles - but from behind the hard-edged surface of crystal there was a strange stirring of colors at the core of the blade. The curved edge of the knife morphed seamlessly into a milky-white handle whose ridges fitted perfectly into her grip, and flowering at the pommel was an angelic face. Its expression met her with infinite serenity and seemed to counter the unease she felt in the gloam.

She noticed Yesugei’s own eyes were glued to the blade. Its pull to perception felt absolute - its power commanded fear.

“Khariija’s blade,” remarked Yesugei. “One of them, at least.”

“Lady…Vasilisa…” the Apostle’s voice trembled, slipping into a disjointed chorus as Unukalhai continued to crawl. “Please…it must be done…”

Vasilisa looked first to the Apostle, then to Yesugei, whose face was hard with concern. The truth passed between them without words. There is no other path. No other path for survival, for peace.

She knelt down until she was face-to-face with the Apostle, seeing the glow of the living star spilling out from behind the cracks in the stone mask - the true form of the Apostles. So vulnerable, despite their might. So sorrowful, despite their terrible rage and hatred.

Unukalhai did not resist her intrusion into their mind - not that they had the strength to do so. Vasilisa saw the eons that weighed down the Apostle’s soul - the terrible weight of eternity which had brought low the high and noble souls of the Gods' first creations into something that was almost human. They themselves were now imperfect, they themselves were like children, blindly following along the will of the Majesties. And in that loyalty there was fear, for Vasilisa saw even they did not truly know what fate lay beyond the answering of the Question.

“Let it all end, please,” spoke the living star. “Give me this mercy.”

Mercy, yes…

She punched the dagger through the Apostle’s heart, and immediately there issued a gasp from the broken husk. Unukalhai’s eyes lit up for a moment as if in surprise- no, rapture. Silvery light snaked out from the Apostle’s stony breast and wrapped about the blade and her hand.

Unukalhai sighed softly. “Thank you. It has been too long...madness...terrible, black madness...”

The silvery light grew brighter, condensing into a small, trembling star that hovered above Unukalhai’s chest. Vasilisa cupped her hands around it, feeling its warmth seep into her skin. It felt fragile, yet infinitely powerful - a paradox of existence, beautiful in both its weakness and its strength.

With a deep breath, she raised the star to her lips and swallowed it whole.

Pain seared through her, a scorching agony that burned from the inside out. She threw her head back, and the scream that tore from her throat echoed through the cavern, sounding through time. Animals of the past startled at the sound, and it echoed down the tunnels of the present.

The Vessel had been born.

The pain was unbearable, yet within it was a rush of strength that roiled inside her like a great storm. She felt as if she were being torn apart, every fiber of her being stretched to its limit. Time about her twisted and slowed, and she could see the very particles of the air around her, the jagged stone of the cavern walls. Everything was vivid, detailed, and alive.

In the slowing of time, she was aware that her mortal form was on the verge of coming apart. She had to master this power, or it would destroy her. Focusing her will, she desperately reined in the great crackling storm and channeled its strength into the ground like a lightning rod. A dark purple light sprouted frok the grassy knoll, arcing and twisting in a thousand directions as it ran up along the walls and exploded with a deafening crack. Gigantic chunks and slabs of earth fell free from above and crashed down around her and Yesugei, who was yelling words she could not hear.

The cavern was collapsing. The First Spring was being buried. The last remnant of the font of life would be forgotten, buried for good beneath a pile of earth.

Vasilisa looked to the crumbling ceiling, and there she saw a thin stab of light appear through the gloom. Her people, her home, it all awaited her above.

With a strain of effort, she forced the power of the living star to bend to her will once more. By her thought, a great woosh sounded as from her back sprouted a pair of heavy wings, black and speckled with starlight, each one thrice as long as she was tall. When more stones careened for her and the nomad princeling she brought the wings to bear, and they shattered against her pinions like glass meeting steel.

She wanted nothing more than to escape the suffocating font of life. She offered a hand to Yesugei as the hole in the ceiling widened, and he grasped it without hesitation.

“Hang on,” she managed, her voice strained with the effort of keeping her wings manifest.

Then with a powerful beat of her wings, she took flight, shattering through the earth above them. She spared towards the stab of light through the darkness, her wings buffeting the air around them as they ascended.

The crack grew larger, and soon she saw the open sky once more.

With a final, desperate push, she broke through the looming darkness and roared up and out from the ruin of the Great Hall. She was almost blinded by the flash of the morning light.

The many folk that were gathered there cried out in a cacophony of terror and surprise. The Hall was filled with warriors and commoners alike - Ilya sat upon the throne, her throne - yet the voivode's address was forgotten as all turned upwards in astonishment to see the princess of the city appearing from the yawning chasm like a vision of fire and light.

Vasilisa hovered in the air for a moment, her wings holding her aloft as she looked down and around upon them all. But suddenly, she felt a wave of dizziness as her vision was flooded with the teeming millions of faces that seemed to obscure the onlookers. She saw their forms shifting, twisting as the echoes of their futures and pasts emerged in disjointed fashion. She heard their voices, marveling at her, while others cried out in fear. But all the eyes of the room were upon her - upon Vasilisa the Fair.

It was too much. The weight of their expectations, their reverence, pressed down on her like a physical force. Her wings, once so strong and fierce, began to falter. The black feathers disintegrated into ashes like a fading dream, and she landed harshly upon the cold stone floor, the impact jolting through her bones.

Yesugei was at her side in an instant, his hands steadying her as she struggled to regain her footing. But before she could speak, a cry came from the crowd: “A miracle!”

The words echoed through the Hall, and others quickly took up the cry. “A miracle! The gods have returned to us her to us!” The shouts grew louder, a fervent chant that filled the air with a palpable energy. The people surged forward, their faces alight with a mix of awe and desperation. They reached out to her, hands grasping, as though to touch her would be to touch the divine. They no longer saw her as just their princess, their ruler of feudal obligation and bloodlines.

“Vasilisa!” they cried, their voices fervent with belief. They were her subjects as they had never been her father’s. “Vasilisa the Fair!”

The crush of bodies pressed closer, and Vasilisa felt their hands upon her, seeking a blessing from the one brought back by the gods of heaven. She felt the heat of their faith, their newfound devotion, and it nearly overwhelmed her, that great force of humanity. That great force of faith - it would be her weapon.

Yesugei’s grip on her tightened, his presence a grounding force in the midst of the chaos as the warriors by the throne moved to push away the crowd, to get the princess to safety. He looked into her eyes, his expression unreadable, but she felt in him the same awe, but also fear. They drew ever closer to that terrible purpose that bound both of them: she had become a symbol, a living vessel of the Majesties to rear and clash against the other that was being born in the east.

There is no other path to salvation.

And so she allowed herself to be swept away by the guards, and the cheering throng cried her name in the Great Hall - crying the name of the Vessel, who would stand before gods that none of them could conceive of even in their darkest dreams.

“VASILISA! VASILISA! VASILISA THE FAIR!”

***

Black death and terror drifted on the air, carried by the embers from the Khurvan.

The Blackwind of the Quanli sat alone atop the Khurvan, the mountain of khans for a thousand years. His hair and his great beard had burnt away in the pyre of the steppe’s fetid, bloated nobility, and so had the rest of those trappings of rule he had always desired.

The Great Khan’s throne was nothing more than a pile of burnt scrap, indistinguishable from the rest. The robes and crown his old blood brother had worn were now drifting out across the Valley of Milk, settling in a million black dots to cover the earth. The Valley of Milk itself was now littered with only the husks of yurts and merchant tents, and the holy waters from the Khurvan were running black.

Vanity of vanities…all of it, vanity. Everything.

The great sea of flame that poured out from the rage of the awakened earth burned for nine days, and it scoured clean all those he had ever wished gone. In one fell swoop, the power of the old, new gods had done what he had tried and failed to do for four decades; what had consumed everything he had. Ten sons buried and gone, humiliations beyond count, and enemies at every turn - that had been all his own gods and his own hands had sown. But now…

From the distant east, he heard the coming of his men. His new men, scoured clean of their impurities, their weaknesses which had failed him time and time again against his blood brother. The new warriors of the Khormchak Horde were the ancient rage of their people made manifest - true demons to fill with terror the hearts of those who saw their coming.

First came the faithful Turlan. The khan of the Zhalair received his kiss of flame with screaming agony, but when he had risen, he was no longer a man. His body was a charred husk, fissured with cracks through which there flooded a terrible red light. His voice rumbled like the awakening earth itself, and in his hand he carried a new banner for the new empire - a square of black cloth, marked with the red hand of Gandroth, and topped with a flickering flame that burned everlasting. The khan seemed more corpse than man, but in his new, twisted life he carried a strength he never had in his years of ignorance.

“Your Resplendence,” Tulgat intoned as he bowed low, bringing his brow to the scorched ground of the Khurvan. “I bring the allegiance of the Isty, the Tama, and all the tribes south of the Jigai.”

“Their allegiance is not ours until they have accepted the flames,” the Blackwind replied. “Take from each family the eldest son, or a daughter, if they’ve none. They will be the first to witness the glory of God, and His kiss.”

From the sky above, a terrible scream heralded the arrival of Kairat. The khan of the Oshaks descended, his great wings cutting through the air with trails of flame as he came down like a noble bird of prey. In his iron beak Kairat held the remnants of a silk-clad arm whose fingers were covered in golden rings. The khan of the Oshaks swallowed the arm, and then he spoke, “The noyans of the Qarakesek are broken and running - my men will make a killing field of all the lands west from here to the border. They’ve nowhere to hide now.”

No…it is not enough. There would be others, many others to replace the noyans - sons, daughters, blood-brothers and more. Tsaagandai had a skill for choosing loyal men who would be more than willing to lie in wait for years to plot. The man was dead, but his empire would not fade so easily. All of it needed to be dismantled - all of it needed to be hammered once more into a single speartip which he could throw across the world.

Last came Alinur - the first one who had stood by his side, and the last to give up his sword. His approach shook the Khurvan. A beast of fire and fury appeared through the drifting smoke - his lion of the west. Massive claws gouged the earth with every step, and his new body, wreathed in roaring flames, caused the very air around him to shimmer and distort.

As Alinur approached the Blackwind, he let out a roar that echoed out across the Valley of Milk, and in the wake of his call there called back hundreds of brazen trumpets, drums, and all the instruments of war. Crowding around the base of the Khurvan, the greater part of the new Khormchak Horde’s army stood - a hundred thousand faithful men, men from across the Empire, and each of them marked by the touch of Gandroth which had spared them when others were consumed by the red god’s hunger.

“Gur-Khan, He Who Rules All Beneath Paradise,” rumbled the voice from the great lion of the west. “The eastern domains are in rebellion. The Tan Ninh are said to have crowned a new emperor. The garrisons in Vinh Huo place crowns on the heads of a dozen different warlords. Khaysong’s ministers have expelled all our blood entirely.”

There was a question in that voice. A burning, eager question which sat upon the minds of the three who knelt before him.

Where shall we strike? Where shall we burn?

Everywhere, in due time.

A dark shadow passed over the Blackwind's heart. It was not the trembling of fear, but something ancient, something that reached beyond the limits of even his newfound might. The voice came from behind him, from the shadows of the Khurvan, where the flames did not dare to touch.

The woman was clad in the Yllahanan style of dress, her robes a deep, unsettling shade of indigo that seemed to hungrily swallow the light around her. The intricate patterns of gold embroidery in the fabric shimmered with a dark energy, as though woven from the night itself. Her hair was long, black as pitch, and woven into dozens of thin braids that fell around her waist. The mask of the senator from Yllahana was almost completely pulled away to reveal the monster that had ridden beneath her skin.

Eridu, the harbinger of his doom and his rebirth, stepped forward with a grace that belied the terrible power she wielded. The Blackwind, for all his might and the legions that now followed him, could not suppress the small, instinctual quiver that ran through his soul as she drew near.

All will burn, Eridu counseled, but not yet, my Great Khan. The time for the Harvest is soon, but the ripest pickings are not here. They are to the east, and there to be sought first. The cities of the Tan Ninh, the Vinh Huo - they are plump, ready for the taking, and only their sacrifice will satiate the appetites of the ones who yet sleep in heaven.

The Blackwind looked out across the Valley of Milk, the remnants of his former life scattered like ashes before him. Visions of his conquest, of stars falling from the heavens and bowing to him, flashed through his mind. The east… Yes, the east was ripe for the Harvest, and it was there where he and his fool blood brother had first struck to carve out their empire. He would need to retrace those steps, but there would be no empire now - only pillage and sacrifice to fuel the paradise of flame across the world.

He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as he brought the skein of fate into focus, the steps needed to bring it into reality "The east," he repeated to his gathered noyans. "We shall bring the Harvest to the east first. Their cities will be the kindling for the great fire that we will carry across the world."

The west can wait, Eridu advised, her voice a whisper that cut through the roar of the flames. Let another gather the wheat there, while we strengthen our forces, while we prepare for the true battle to come. The False One will be there, waiting, but we must not strike until we are ready—until we hold the power to crush her utterly.

The Blackwind turned his gaze to her, a flicker of doubt passing through his mind. "Why not cut off the head of the pretender now, while she is still weak? Why delay the inevitable?"

Eridu's expression remained unchanged, her eyes burning with a cold, unwavering certainty. Because, Great Khan, if you go to the west now, it will be your head that shall fall. The Outer One's daughter now wields something that you do not have—a terrible knife born from the Outer One's blasphemy, of which only one remains to be found. It is a weapon that can undo even our strength - we must find the second dagger, and only then will you be able to strike with your full might.

The Blackwind's mind raced, his thoughts turning to the visions he had seen—the stars kneeling before him, the world burning in his name. But those visions had not shown him the dagger, had not warned him of this danger. He clenched his fists, the heat of his anger rising, but Eridu's words held him in place.

"We shall search for this dagger," he agreed aloud to his noyans, his voice low and filled with resolve. "And once it is found, we will turn our gaze westward. Then, and only then, will we strike down the False One and at last claim the world for our own."

Eridu nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. Yes, my Great Khan. The east will fall before you, and the west will follow in time. Then the world will be silent at last…

The Blackwind looked out across his army, the lines and skeins of fate dancing and twisting before his eyes as he witnessed all that was to come. The stars would fall and serve him, the fires would spread from sea to sea, and when he was done, there would be silence and order at last - and the only audience he would receive would be the Majesties.

But first, the steppe needed to be hammered into shape once more. Then, the east would be brought to heel. Only then his full strength would be marshaled, and the power to destroy the False One would be secured.

He called his noyans, and gave them their marching orders.

The west would wait.