A.D. 2014 July
Outside Conventional Spacetime
Set me free.
What will you do if I set you free?
I will kill you if you set me free.
Then I cannot set you free.
The exchange was unspoken, understood completely by body language, a shared gaze, and the vibrance of their spirits. Yaijinden watched his prisoner as if looking into a distorted mirror, and did not wonder why others had feared him in years past. His prisoner was wild-eyed, sharp-smiled, and possessed of murderous innocence; the man-thing before him had seen strange horizons and been changed for the worse by his experience.
In short, he was seeing himself: a Yaijinden who had tipped from faux-indifferent ambivalence about the world to caring about the world, deeply, in nihilistic delight.
“You are doing me a cruelty,” the once-khadi Horror-Terror said to him, tone betraying mild irritation that never reached its gaze. Its voice was a thing that could drive mortals mad by the littlest of insinuations, and was something still that set the walls of its prison to quivering. “You keep me in a cage. You bottle me away. You feed me little trinkets, little pustules of information about the world you live in. I survive, but I do not live.”
“You sound surprised by this,” Yaijinden mused, head canting slightly to the side. “Why is that?”
The Horror-Terror picked up a magazine, wrinkled and crumpled, and held it to the looking glass. “You have hope,” it answered, the smile becoming a sneer. “I can smell it on your breath. You think the world may be made a better place. Free of hate, free of pain, free of suffering, free of all those other idiocies that they used to spout.”
“Let us say,” he said, bemused, “for the sake of argument, that your assumptions are correct.”
“You must release me. It is the only thing consistent with what you espouse.”
“How do you suppose?”
“Because I must be given a chance.” The Horror-Terror released the magazine from his grip, where it fluttered gracelessly to the floor. “I will not deny my wickedness, but am I irredeemable?” it hissed, soothingly. “Am I any different from the great demons and ogres? Release me. You will find me a tractable student, once I have fattened myself on your heartsblood.”
“Quite the charmer, aren’t you.”
It smiled again at him. “Will you set me free?”
Yaijinden was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “’When a creature has developed into one thing, he will choose death rather than change into his opposite’,” he recited, regretful. “You have taken a stand. I will honor that stand by not attempting to force you to recant.”
“I am not so proud as to prefer destruction.”
“But you are cunning, and a liar of tremendous skill. It is why I have not delivered you to Nyx, and it is why I have not released you back to whence you came.”
The Horror-Terror hissed again – a baring of fangs and a changing of countenance entirely. “You walk with my face, but you are not I. You have stolen our name, and worse, you dance just as your fool cousins did: in self-righteous blindness to anything but their delight.”
“Fool?” Yaijinden found himself chuckling. “They followed the path writ for them by their own wills. Danced every step precisely as their very existence demanded.”
“'Any road followed precisely to its end leads to nowhere.'” The thing behind the looking glass sneered again at him. “You are not the only one who remembers the lessons of the Atreides.”
“Conceded,” he allowed. “You call me a thief of names, but mine was given rightly to me.”
“And you have turned against what it rightly ought have been.” The Horror-Terror leaned forward, face pressing against the glass. “I know you better than you think,” it said to him. “I know you have cast your eyes into the far reaches. I know you have seen what we could have been.”
“And this was what happened instead,” Yaijinden answered, not impressed. “You sound as though you disapprove—which, really, is curious to me. Most might consider this existence something of an upgrade.”
“It is a step BACKWARDS!” it screamed at him – and slammed a fist into the glass. Brilliant emerald runes flared in a spiral shape beneath its fist, the legend of the Widening Gyre denying it freedom by right of the cosmic law inscribed on the bones of the universe. The Horror-Terror lingered there, eyes wide with hate, breathing heavily, as the symbols slowly receded into nothingness again. “It is a step backwards,” it repeated again, calmer but no less bitterly, “and you carry the sins of the past into the future.”
“And which sin,” Yaijinden asked indulgently, “would this be?”
“…I do not expect you to understand.” The Horror-Terror turned around and walked back to the center of its prison. “That is what is most tragic,” it said, almost regretful. “Your facsimile – that thing you use, to think like a human – can only fumble blindly with the concept. Your highest manifestation, your greatest shintai, could not begin to fathom the slightest scraps of it.”
“Because I am too big?” he ventured.
The Horror-Terror’s shoulders slumped. “No.”
“Because it is the same sin that slew the Primordial Otherthings, in the beginning?”
“No.”
“Because I did not walk your paths?”
“No!” It whirled around to face him again, an accusing malice in its smile. “Even now, you grasp without vision, hear without listening, look without seeing. Release me, and I will show you your sin.”
“I shall not release you,” he answered, disappointed. “I do not know you beyond your hate, which cuts at everything I have given you that you have touched.”
“You attempt to pacify me when I am not here of my own free will. Is it really so surprising that I bear you ill will, above and beyond my contempt?”
Silence.
“I will tell you why I hate you,” the Horror-Terror said, suddenly mild, seating itself cross-legged in the middle of its chamber. “It will not help my case before you, because you will not understand, but I will tell you why I hate you.
“What if I do understand?”
The Horror-Terror blinked once. Then, its expression went dark. “If you do understand, I will have to
redouble my efforts to escape and destroy you.”
Yaijinden smiled wanly. “Why is that?”
“Because if you understand,” it said, morosely, “then you are not acting on that understanding. If you understand but do not act on your understanding, then your shiny silver heart is less than worthless because it has made you the worst of cowards.”
“Ah.” He nodded after a moment, acknowledging the assertion. “Do what you can, then,” he suggested. “If you speak fact, and my convictions cannot make room for them, then my convictions deserve to be destroyed.”
“It is nothing so meagre as fact that drives me onwards, I am afraid.” It drew a long breath, savoring what could be savored in the air in its cell. “You acknowledge samsara,” the Horror-Terror said, its tone made it obvious that this was not a question.
“The wheel of karma and change, the activity of the universe, desire and fear and revulsion and a thousand things besides.”
“Within samsara, you will find the root cause of all suffering in the universe.”
“Accurate, but potentially misleading. It is not samsara that causes suffering, but the actions of the thinking beings within it.”
“Beings that, themselves, are part of the cycle.” Its eyes narrowed. “A thing that thinks is part of samsara. Comprised of samsara, enmeshed within karma, creating karma, to die and return to karma. Part of the great mechanism itself. Therefore, the root cause of all suffering in the universe can be found within samsara.”
“…for the purposes of your argument, let us say that this is so.” Yaijinden leaned against the glass separating them, an arm on the windowpane. “Go on.”
“Existence is suffering,” the Horror-Terror said reverently, eyes closed, rocking back in its position on the floor. “Yes, there are positive experiences within samsara, but are they not outnumbered and outweighed by the negative experiences we thinking beings create for ourselves?”
“Potentially,” he allowed again, warily.
“Thus, the sum of existence is negative experience,” it concluded, unhappily. “Non-existence becomes superior to existence.”
“If one measures the value of existence by subjective experience.”
“What other measure do we have?” Its eyes opened again, and the smile was of the highest condescension. “Objective experience is untouchable by any mind capable of holding an opinion. The dogmas of old are mere dogmas. We have nothing we can trust if not our own experience, and even that we know to be unreliable.”
“And yet, it is possible for a mind to shape itself to perceive fewer negative experiences by devaluing their meaning…”
“Cognitive tricks,” the Horror-Terror said, waving a dismissive hand, “ultimately indistinguishable from rationalizations and further self-delusions. The experiences still occur. Their sum still outweighs the sum of positive experiences. This world is a trap – all of the cosmos is a trap – and rather than chew off our own leg or wait for the hunter who set the snare, we malinger in the trap and pretend we are not slowly dying.”
“So what do you intend to do about this?” Yaijinden traced a spiral on the glass with a finger, widening slowly outwards. “Besides bemoan the state of the universe, and all of that good stuff we both indulged in back in the beginning.”
“What I intend is to cut off the problem at the source.”
There was a long pause. “You intend to destroy the universe,” Yaijinden said.
“All universes,” the Horror-Terror corrected him. “Everywhere. Everywhen. And anything that could create a universe, too.”
“And you think this will resolve the problem.”
“If there is no samsara, there is no existence; if there is no existence, there can be no suffering. Quod erat demonstratum, yes?”
“Godsbedammit,” he groaned, banging his head once against the glass. “I thought we were above this kind of nonsense.”
The monster smiled back, visibly entertained by the reaction. “And, as I knew it would, my words have fallen on deaf ears.”
“It’s childish, is what it is,” he said, shaking his head, not moving from his position.
“Am I wrong?”
“Your premises could use some work, for one.” His gaze snapped up. “Aren’t you going to increase the amount of suffering in the cosmos when you go to end all existences?”
“Yes,” the thing behind the glass admitted, continuing to rock back and forth in its seated position. “It is very likely that I may be responsible for a spike in the suffering within the cosmos. However, as a surgeon must cut apart their patient to excise a tumor, so I would be doing a smaller harm to avoid a greater, everlasting pain.”
“Then what of the potential purpose of suffering?” he went on, challenging. “You are just as aware of the process of Sublimation as I am. Do those cultures not factor into your calculations?”
The Horror-Terror sighed, shaking its head. “Believe me, I did consider them. In the end, though, the one thing that can be certain about them is that nothing is certain about them.”
“They seemed quite certain to me about the worth of going to the beyond.”
“No less certain as the person on their fifth potentially-abusive significant other, completely convinced that this time, although nothing else has changed, this person will not beat them.” It folded its hands in its lap, unimpressed. “Whatever gains a culture may come into through Sublimation, does that truly balance out the tens of thousands of other cultures and their tens of millions, or billions, or trillions of lives that will never participate in such an event?”
“It could well.”
A grim smile was its answer. “You don’t know that. None of us do, not conclusively, not with any proof, not with any certainty. Next objection.”
“…no, I think we are in fact done here.” Yaijinden stepped back, disappointed. “I’ll give you this much. You were right: we cannot be reconciled. I shall not accept your proposition, because I cannot countenance your premises.”
“For fear that I am right?” the Horror-Terror said, leering.
“For your decision to have chosen all things to be your enemy.”
Silence.
“You presume,” it said, rising at last to its feet, “that all things are not already your enemy.”
Yaijinden laughed, nodding. “I do.”
“And you believe that,” it said, visibly nauseated.
“I do!” Yaijinden spread his arms wide, as if to encompass all things within them. “You look to the nighttime skies and you see the building hosts of your enemies. I look to the stars, and I see the ten thousand mysteries, each one beckoning me further onwards. How can I hold anger for a universe that promises to entertain me so? And in that realization…”
He trailed off, the grin lingering on his face, before he leveled a finger at the thing that bore his image. “You would raise a weapon against everything I hold dear,” Yaijinden said, somewhere between surprised, delighted, and offended. “That you would kill me, murder me, rip me apart and burn me to ashes -- that means nothing to me. I experience traumas, and rise above them, whether by my own merit or the work of others. But that you would raise that same weapon against those I love?”
“With mortals,” it hissed. “You diminish yourself with your pastimes.”
“Do I?” Yaijinden’s delight did not waver. “I recall it being a common pastime among the gods of our forefathers,” he reflected aloud. “They think me diminished for my attentions. Focused on the small games. Safer. Less likely to cause waves. And perhaps they are correct – but I wonder why they seem so sure about it.”
“One might suggest that threats to your loved ones have kept you out of the Nightfall conflict,” the Horror-Terror supplied helpfully. If nothing else, it remembered how to facilitate a monologue. “That seems like plenty of evidence off the cuff.”
“It would be sufficient reason,” he agreed. “But necessary? No. And yet…”
“Why are you telling this to me, rather than to them?” it finished.
“…because the game is still on,” Yaijinden finished. “Because the music is still playing, and the dance is not yet done. And I think that if there is one thing we both still appreciate…”
“It is an inside joke.”
He nodded, pleased. “Can you see why I remain?”
It tilted its head to the side, frowning. “Through a glass, darkly. But yes, I do see.”
A long pause. “Even if you don’t agree,” Yaijinden said quietly, somewhat disenheartened.
“You are indulging yourself in selfishness and vanity,” the Horror-Terror responded, mild but unoffended irritation back in its voice. “You are of course free to behave in accordance with your selfishness and vanity, as are all creatures, but that does not mean I am obliged to condone it.”
Yaijinden sighed knowingly. “And thus,” he said regretfully, “we swing back to my problem with you.”
“Release me,” the Horror-Terror whispered tersely.
“You are correct,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “You aren’t irredeemable. It is within the realm of possibility that, in time, you will let go of your pursuits, that someone or something or you yourself will convince you that you are wrong. Precognition isn’t my thing. I don’t know that you won’t see the light.”
“Release me,” the Horror-Terror repeated, intense.
“It is a sign of my weakness and a marker of my shame that I cannot convince you of this myself. Would that I could do so… no, that’s not it.” He shook his head, gaze unfocusing. “Would that I were wise enough to do so without doing tremendous violence to you in the process.”
“RELEASE ME AK’HAD N’YEEB’ARAI THOCHTET UCHSTEQ.”
The spiral wards inside the its cell flared to the brightness of ten suns.
Yaijinden said nothing for long moments, waiting for the tremendous light of the spiral warding inside its cell to slowly die away. By increments, it diminished, and the throbbing of the universe within those walls went with it, dwindling away. By fragments, he could see the Horror-Terror wearing what had been his face, on hands and knees, a pool of brackish crimson pooling beneath its head, dribbling in steady drips from its nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. “Clever,” he said, appreciative. “How long have you been waiting to use the Call to Submission Yielded to the Elder Ones?”
It gargled something hateful in response, an act of defiance that ended up with it doubling over again in a hacking, consumptive cough that only produced more ichor. “It was a good idea,” Yaijinden admitted. “And maybe you have even better up your sleeve, but you’re going to need to use those better ideas if you want to escape.”
The Horror-Terror slumped over onto its side, away from the puddle of thick, black-streaked ichor, weakness overcoming it at last. It managed to level a look at him, condemning and bitter and hateful and a thousand angry things besides, but the damage done to it in its attempt to breach the barrier ward would take quite some time to heal. It wasn’t going anywhere. “Here you are,” he said, with finality, turning and leaving it behind. “And here you shall stay, until it pleases me to release you.”
His concerns were assuaged. He would not slay the Horror-Terror using his name, but he would not release it, and he would feel no shame over its indefinite containment. The shintai-avatar of the Widening Gyre turned its attention from its Self back to the physical sphere of the planet Earth, and the sanctity of home – and, with a lighter conscience, to the more entertaining subjects of the never-ending comings and goings that would always be part of the universe he so loved.
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