Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 40 – Lunar

Note: Well this it. Whew! I am going to do sort of a review post in the next week or two like I did for the first CD project talking about this whole experience. For the record, this file is 168 single-spaced pages in Word, which adds up to 71,379 words. Yikes.

Disc 2

Track 17: Tangled Up in Plaid by Queens of the Stone Age

“A self-inflicted wound, your Gift,
Impeccable aim
Can really clear a room
All the bodies piled in your way
Oh yeah
(it hurts so bad)
(It must oh yeah)

I could keep you all for myself
I know
You gotta be free
So free yourself

I could keep you all for myself
I know
You gotta be free
So kill yourself


The dark is like death, but deeper and longer and colder. Like standing for the first time at a high altitude, the air is drawn away from the lungs, sipphoned from the body while the lips and tongue pant to catch it. The dark is like death, but not final.

No, not final, my friends walking this long journey beside me. Not final.

There is light, and like all light, it appears with no discernible start. It’s just there. While the two, light and dark, spend eternity denying the other’s existence, there cannot be one without the other. For they are weaved, forever tangled together.

But that, my friends, is not the point. Not the point, at all.

With light comes the colors, brillant and tragic, cascading, pouring, streaking and drowning the scope of vision. Then swirling, swirling, swirling, swirling, swirling…

Then form.

“Paw and claw and hand.” His eyelids open, his milky, white pupils see nothing and everything. The paw digs and tears. The claw burns and consumes. The hand. Well, the hand gives and takes.

Then form.

See it my friends, for soon rest will come for the weary. Soon dark, once more. But for now, see it.

There is a city atop the great mountain with seven layers, with each layer above about half the size of the one below. On the seventh layer, there is a hall. Where the last great king sat upon a marble throne before a thousand stone stools. Sculpted along the walls are twelve ancient figures lost to most of the world today. They were the old heroes from an even older age, an even older dream. When the blood of Marek pumped straight from the heart of the mighty, the hall glowed from a huge golden chandelier with a thousand candles burning bright and the air was filled with laughter and shouts and cries and all the sounds of a living, breathing kingdom.

See it now.

Echoes, faint echoes, still bounce from stone to stone. They are weak, almost lost. The warmth. The fire. The light. All gave way to shadow at the madness of Tarek Grandar at the end of the last age. In the corners, spiderwebs hang from the ceiling to the floor where they are met by piles of rat dung. The thousand stone stools have crumbled. The marble throne is chipped and faded and leaning, but not empty. No, not empty at all.

See it now.

“Metahischoo!”

He has something wrapped up lying upon his lap. He’s seen it once, long enough to forge it. That was enough to claim his waking eye’s sight. In the distance, there are footsteps. At last, they have arrived.

“You’ve done this.”

“You’ve done this?”

“You’ve done this.”

“YOU”VE DONE THIS!”

A million voices, from a millions dreams, from a miilion worlds all floating in the dark.

“Come now, Heir of Marek. Come and let’s put an end to this. Come, let’s begin anew.”

Come now, friends. See the great hall. See the Dreamer. See the boy and his one-eyed companion. See it all. See it now.


* * *

Cassar escorted Oan and Nestor through the seven levels. The rest of the Keepers followed well behind. Even though the great city had been denied the gargola and his people since the end of the last age, Cassar knew the way through the six levels of the city till they came to one last final dark staircase.
“I will go no further,” Cassar stopped. “Tarek Grandar’s hall is forbidden ground for us. Follow these stairs up to the hall. I believe the Dreamer will be waiting for you.”

Oan turned to the gargola, who despite his menacing size and bulging muscles had a contrasting gentleness in the wide features of his face. His eyes, like the eyes of all the Keepers were tinted with melancholy.

“The days of Tarek Grandar have passed, Cassar,” Oan reached out, but the giant lurched back. “With it, his curses.”

Cassar’s shoulders slumped. With it came a batch of wrinkles that stretched out across his face. It was impossible to know how old the gargola was by looking. At first glance, Oan had thought that he and Cassar might have been about the same age. Now it appeared, Cassar was much older. Maybe even ancient.

Now the gargola stepped forward, reached out his arm. Oan’s shoulder disappeared under the gargola’s huge hand. Oan could feel ungodly strength in each finger.

“Perhaps, my king,” Cassar said. “But we have yet to atone for our transgressions. Only then will our curse lift. For now, we must part.”

The gargola released Oan, and walked away never once looking back. Oan returned the steps with Nestor at his side and took his first step.

* * *

They entered the hall on the opposite end of the throne, their footprints marking their trail in a layer of grim and dust. Before them was the vision of broken hopes and dreams. Along both sides of a long aisle, stone stools were toppled and broke. Up ahead, the throne loomed, actually leaned to one side from a cracked leg.

Sitting upon the throne was the small man, his green cape draped over his shoulders, his white shirt billowing out, his sightless eyes staring across the room at them. Oan exhaled. All these miles and it was back to that frail man, who at the start of the journey had presented him with Kekur.

Drawing the sword, Oan marched across the room. Around him an old wind started to swirl. Nestor stayed back, cowering away from the man in the throne and the fearful echoes blaring in his ears. Oan ignored those. It was the man he was here for. When he reached the throne, the small man smiled, his white teeth glowed behind.

“I dream of a field of white roses where a breeze, warm and moist, blows eternal,” the man’s voice was now deep and slow, unlike the high-pitched boy-like voice from before. “I sit upon a hill overlooking this valley with a lion and a dragon, paw in claw in hand. I see green eyes that smile with no lips. I live, I breathe and days go by.”

“I have heard all about your dreams before,” Oan said between gritted teeth. They had come all this way to see this man again.

“Life is a dream, then we awake,” The Dreamer chirped and placed his hands on a long bundle on his lap.

“What has all this been about?” Oan pointed Kekur at the man.

“I have been dreaming for a very long time. I’ve had more dreams than I can remember, but I remember you very clear. A man just finished being a boy, tall with long, dark hair and broad shoulders. His skin dark brown from days under the sun; his blood cold; his heart stone, a man destined for the great battle. A man carrying three blades.”

Oan dropped to his knees, his heart pumped so slow that it reverberated in his ears.

“I am tired.”

“You cannot rest. Not yet.”

“No.”

“Heir of Marek, you have reached Metahischoo. Now claim, your throne, your kingdom and your line.”

“I know none of this.”

“Then you ignore you’re dreams.”

“I do not dream.”

“Life is a dream, then we awake.”

“I am tired.”

“I dream of a river of fire burning with no end. A gold throne soaked in blood and a million glowing eyes peering from every shadow. Death, sorrow, paw and claw and hand. Agony rolling like thunder on the wind.”

“No more dreams.”

“This is no dream.”

Oan raised his head and the man was standing before him, the bundle from his hand stretched in offering to Oan.

“There are three swords destined for your hand, King of Marek,” the Dreamer said. “Now, claim the second. The bane of Salama. The scar of Old Moon. Wound of the heavens. Lunar made by thy successor. Release its glory. Unleash its terror once more.”

Every voice in his head screamed “NO!” even the voice of Kekur. It had been an age since the two swords had been together. Oan reached up, grasping the bundle and stood.

“If this is the second sword of three. What of the third?”

“One demon at a time, my boy. One at a time.”

Oan turned away from the Dreamer. Way back in the corner of the room, Nestor cowered in a shadow.

Unwrapping the cloth from around the blade, which seemed to have no weight at all, Oan could feel warmth growing across the room. The blade was white with a black hilt. When it was completely unsheathed a great light burst forth, blinding everything.

“Life is a dream, then we awake.” The Dreamer’s voice crept into his head. Oan fumbled to cover the sword again. As he did, the light receded. The hall before him was changed. Gone were the spiders and dung. Gone were the shadows. Above him, a brilliant gold chandlier hung with a thousand candles all lit. Down both walls great fireplaces roared and the statues along the walls were returned to their former glory. The stone stools stood perfectly in a hundred even rows. Oan noticed that Nestor had fled from his corner and could sense, he thought through the sword, that the man was hiding on the stairway.

Oan looked back to find the polished marble throne empty. The Dreamer was gone and Oan thought it had something to do with the blinding light. He rides the light, Oan thought.

Oan sat on the throne and soon a precession of Keepers filed into the hall. They walked up to him single file, knelt, and begged forgiveness. He gave it. Cassar was the last of that line.

“I, Cassar Gar, Steward of Marek, beg forgiveness for failing the True King.”

“Rise, Steward, and witness Marek. Think of old transgressions no more.”

Cassar rose, and took his place on a stool in the front row. All the stools were full.

“A great evil has returned,” Oan began. “We chased it away once. We shall do it again.”

A cheer followed while outside a great wind swirled, removing an age of dust and shadow. The fires of Metahischoo burned again.

The wind carried down the mountain to the plains where the nomadic remains of Rion, now known as Aldroubi, stopped a hunt and looked curiously to the north.

The wind carried across the Belnor to a woman and a girl, huddled against a log while hiding beside a road. The two were being followed, but by who or what they could not figure. The wind chased their scent away from their followers and the two sighed in relief.

The wind carried to Union Hall at Omet where a once proud King shivered with fever from a wound. Hovering over him, his cousin prepared a plan to make sure the King never regained his health.

The wind carried to a woman traveling with two dark robed figures. All three pulled their cloaks tightly around them, a sudden and rare sense of fear coursed through them.

The wind carried to Stra where another King dressed his wounds, some with cloth and some with strong ale and a stronger malice.

Finally, the wind came to a stop at Noce in the kingdom of Nocnil. All the lights had long ago left Noce, and now in the darkness, a fork-tongued demon wailed.