Tristitia

By Michael John Weber

Theidan Railige is about to be kicked out of Hy'Viyyenn... He is not sure why, exactly – perhaps, It is because he can dream, his strong feelings regarding the price of cheese toast, or that his wings have changed into a glowering, violet maelstrom. Regardless the reason, when the Mythical Knight of Heaven arrives to conduct him on his journey – one teeming with Daemons, unsavoury food, and rampant nudity – Theidan has no choice but to leave that PerfectPlace of cloud and Light... And, his leaving shall change it for always.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael John Weber
• Release date: Jul 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994759504

Michael John Weber

I live at the Sungoma Arts Centre, on Vancouver Island. It's quiet and peaceful, and surprisingly comfortable, especially in the forgiving winters, here. There, I write novels, short stories, screenplays, and essays; I make music as well, under the moniker DJ Stoa, which I publish all over the Internets; I also design board-games, card-games, and pen & paper role-playing games, for children and adults alike.

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Tristitia

Copyright 2015 Michael John Weber

Published by Michael John Weber at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Prologue

Canto I

Canto II

Canto III

Canto IV

Canto V

Canto VI

Canto VII

Canto VIII

Canto IX

Canto X

Canto XI

Canto XII

Canto XIII

Canto XIV

Canto XV

Canto XVI

Canto XVII

Canto XVIII

Canto XIX

Canto XX

Canto XXI

Canto XXII

Canto XXIII

Epilogue

Lexicon

‘Once, scientists genetically engineered some fruit flies so they be born without eyes. Fruit flies have brief life spans, meaning that one may witness the passing of many generations in a relatively short period. And, as those scientists watched their eye-less fruit flies go about their lives, it came to pass that – after about fifty generations – there suddenly came to be born a fruit fly who possessed eyes…’

Prologue

The hallway shudders and rumbles as another wave of siege-fire rains down upon the Fortress. Dust pours from cracks in the polished walls and the intermittent lights along the ceiling flicker and hum. Distant trumpets call out in alarm; the War they said could never happen has begun. And, it is his fault.

He moves carefully down the corridor, as one who fears he be discovered, wide eyes looking this way and that. He sees a crossroads ahead and his straining ears sense footfalls – heavy boots on stone – approach with haste. The hall trembles once more as he enters a nearby door, seeking refuge in the dark room beyond. He peeks through the crack of the door, towards the noise, to the door far down the hall that was his goal – the door that would save his life. A long line of soldiers march by, clattering in their armour, their weapons held slantwise across their chests. They move with haste, and do not bother to turn their eyes from their course. The Fortress rumbles as they disappear down the hall. Ceiling lights blink and buzz.

He leaves the darkness of the room, moving as he did before, towards that door and the small, glowing red sign above it. Cautiously, almost fearfully, he goes, and as he reaches that door and grips its handle, he feels eyes on the back of him. Over his shoulder he looks, and sees only cracked and empty halls…

Beyond the door is a staircase made of grated metal, which spirals down a squared shaft of space. His boots ring and scrape on the steps as he rapidly descends, passing by the plain, metallic doors on each wind of the staircase. He loses count of which level he is on, but it does not matter to him; he intends to venture as far down as he can.

He passes another door and feels watching eyes, again. It is so apparent to him he lurches to a halt; he sets his eyes upon the plain, metallic door and to the stairs above and below him, but he sees no one. He glances at the door once more, with a mind to continue his descent, but an idea occurs to him. He reaches into his coat pocket and handles the short wand of crystal therein. He was going to bring it with him, but…

A short time later, he is back on the stairs, winding his way down into the heart of the Fortress. His impromptu task complete, he wishes he could stay long enough to see the results of his work. However, destruction draws near; time is almost up.

What are you doing here? her voice from behind him asks. Startled, he turns about, as she continues: What is going on? Her eyes wide, hair uncharacteristically dishevelled and covered with dust and soot; blood flows from a cut on her brow to cloud her vision.

Jenn? He blinks as if he does not believe what he sees.

What is happening?

The Island is under attack; the War has begun, he replies.

Who would dare such a thing? she demands.

He thinks she knows the answer. It is of no matter, now. We have been summoned – Mezostymion is waiting; we must go.

She stares off into nothing, mouth working at inaudible words. The Fortress shudders.

Jennephd, please…

Mezos’ lair is deep within the Fortress, where the heat and steam is. She hunches on her dais like a bird of prey the instant before flight; the thrum of the Dragon’s purrs shakes the air and ground. Flickering lights and noxious gasses, both in green and amber, fill the massive lair. Mezos is impatient. The two make their way into the chamber and, seeing the others already there, Jenn says, Look, the Riders gather, now.

He follows her, grudgingly, to the others. They stand clad in their armour, the finest ever forged, and armed enough to defeat any army, though only six of them there be. Their eyes pierce him; he knows they despise him, and they argue against him joining their scheme. Instead, they talk as if they should kill him.

There is no more time, says one of the Riders, her multitude of thin, honey-coloured braids swaying as she speaks. If Mezostymion has summoned him, then he is to come. But, the Dragon wishes to leave, now…

He clings to the great Dragon as her roar washes over him. His body shakes as if to fall apart. Mezos tears from the Fortress, finally free; the EightRiders flee the Island. The DeepestSleep overtakes them. The Dragon races across the SilentSea passed the GreatDancers and the FireWind – away from danger, away from Triiah’Riy…

CANTO I

~Theidan wakes from a strange dream upon the morn of a HolyDay; he is harrowed by three conversations; Theidan falls from the Light~

Daemons sure do like a good cup of coffee. You know, it is actually quite delicious, with a bit of cream and sugar, though I still shudder to think where in Hell they get cream from… Anyway, it is not quite as good as the coffee in Heaven, but do not tell the Daemons that – they take that kind of thing personally.

You see, under the GreatDome of that DivineCity, the coffee was perfect – everything was perfect. How could it have been otherwise, living in the Light of OurLord? The Good and Honoured Order prevailed perpetually, so that no imperfect thing could find solace within the round of that ShiningDome. Except, the cheese toast, of course - eighty-thousand Siyyen is far too expensive for cheese toast, regardless who you ask. Daemons are not too keen on cheese toast, so it is not a problem here. That was why I was banished – not the cheese toast, the other thing. Well, a little because of the cheese toast, but I am getting ahead of myself.

The day of my leaving was not a typical day, it was a brilliant day, one set aside for celebration; it was on that day when the Divine Timepiece – the Tiyyai’Esse – would complete its full turn and, thus, mark the passage of another age in Hy’Viyyenn. Rumours had raced ‘round the DivineCity for some time prior, which affected every Choir of Ejal and concerned a long, variegated range of topics, from the duration of the fire-flower display and its attendant expense on the City, to what commemorative items would be available for sale. They had already pre-released the collectible broach aeternities ago – a coin-sized disc of orichalcum with the Tower of Virtue engraved thereupon – and any Ejal worth their wings had it already. I did not have one; I had not bothered to spend my Siyyen on the previous twenty-nine commemorative whatever’s, so I would not have dreamed of getting this one. However, that is what I found myself doing early that HolyDay morning - dreaming.

I dreamt I hovered outside of my quarters, which I found strange for I had no wings with which to stay aloft - instead, it seemed to me that I stood upon the thin, thin air as if it were solid ‘neath my feet. The Strata in which I lived stood up against the inside of the ShiningDome, my apartment meager on both space and décor, as was befitting of one of my low Station and Standing. Before me, I could see the whole of the City, a vast field of HighStrata – like columnar basalt – arrayed in concentric rings ‘round the DivineTower, a great spire of glowing white rock that reached high to the apex of the Dome. At the top of the Tower rested the T’Ezv’Tel – a brilliant, flawless crystal as massive as ten-thousand Ejal that shone forth with a Light and warmth enough to sustain all of Hy’Viyyenn.

The City in the dream appeared empty of anyone, save me, so I figured I would take the opportunity to catch up on some important shopping I had been meaning to do, considering there would be no line-ups. It was a short list, really: a new pair of wings was first – since mine were gone – and second was a new pair of pants, which made sense, too, since I happened to be without pants at that moment. Last on my list was a fondue set, specifically one coloured a shade of violet so deep it was nearly black. I recall that at one moment, I stood upon the air, boxer shorts flapping gently in the breeze, and the next moment I stood on the veranda at the base of the GreatTower. It did not occur to me how I had moved from my Strata to the Tower in an instant instead of a forever – I simply arrived. It was then that the dream changed.

No, it was not that – the dream went on as it had, what with the shopping and being half naked and all. However, my point-of-view seemed to slip backwards, away from my eyes and out the back of my head, and further still, slowly, so that I watched myself go about the dream from five paces away. The me I watched did not seem to notice, but I remember growing increasingly alarmed as a disembodied vector of perception that continued to slide backwards.

At a distance of what seemed to be twenty paces, I watched my dream-self purchase a new pair of pants, though no one seemed to work at the store – light blue they were, and apparently made of feathers, which I found unnecessary. I was going to say something to ‘him’ about it when a sensation passed over me, as if pulled from a hot bath into freezing air. As I watched ‘him’ go about his business – in his funky, feathered pantaloons – darkness closed in on the edges of my perception. The dream continued on, despite me, there within a glowing sphere surrounded by an infinite darkness. The sphere grew small as I drifted further from it, and I suddenly became aware of other points of light off in the darkness ‘round me, faint and minuscule. I looked at the sphere from which I had come, and thought I might be able to wrap my arms ‘round it, so small it was. And, still, my dream-self went about within that glowing orb, soaring through an empty City on wings made of jet and silver and gold, blue-feathered trousers fluttering majestically, unaware I had left him – left he, and the dream.

Two sets of fingers wrapped ‘round the uppermost edge of the dream-sphere from behind, and clamped on. They shifted and whitened, as if under strain, and slowly, she pulled her head up from behind that glowing orb, puffing and scrunching her nose as if she had climbed a great height. I remember I had looked ‘neath that dream-sphere with the expectation that I would see her legs dangling below it, but I saw only darkness. When I looked back up, she sat atop my dream-sphere, legs crossed and head cocked slightly to one side. I locked eyes with her, and she smiled.

Cute pants, she said to me.

Then, I woke up.

I lie in bed for a time – I am uncertain how long – and attempted to wrap my head ‘round that crazy dream. I wondered, off-handily, what time in Hy’Viyyenn it was, and a cluster of numerals materialized slowly from nowhere, each thick as a finger and aglow a soft green, what declared it to be near the beginning of tierce. Verily, that is when I knew something was wrong. Since I had never dreamt before that day, the dream was strange enough, but this – I always roused from sleep at the same moment, every day in Hy’Viyyenn; always. It never occurred to me that it was possible to wake prior to tierce. I sat at the edge of my luminous bed and watched the glowing numerals drift about the room, silently bouncing off the furnishings and walls, casting an eerie glow as they went. I considered going back to sleep, but I honestly did not wish to risk another dream. The glowing timepiece drifted in too close to my face and I waved it away as one does any nuisance; it skittered off to hover in a corner.

Cute pants? I said, and lifted myself from bed.

My quarters were typical of my low Standing, a rectangular space a few paces wide and perhaps six long, sparsely furnished with a low table, a simple rug, and a few lithographs that broke the aesthetic monotony of the glowing walls. At one end of the room was a door, which I had never used, and opposite that stood a plain wall. I moved myself to hover upon the air before that featureless wall and it instantly became as transparent as glass, a thick pane through which I could see the scope of the City beyond. In the same moment, the room filled with a dozen or more cubes of Light and colour, each the size of my head, which proceeded to orbit slowly about me.

A case of the early morning stares overcame me, then, and I tried to recall the quickly vanishing details of my reverie. At the time, I could not remember what she in my dream looked like, except that perhaps she was slender and tall. I felt I had met her before in my waking life, in passing or someone from my classes at the Syh’Tiyah’Ahr when I was young; ultimately, she did not strike me as familiar. She was not of the Eswai’El, either, though to dream of one of the many popular artists or entertainers in Hy’Viyyenn would have made sense, I suppose. All of that, however, avoided the obvious, avoided the image engraved upon my mind – her eyes. It was not a case of mere beauty, nor was it the gleam within them, which, coupled with her smile, gave her the aire of knowing a secret or punchline to an inside joke. No, her eyes were disturbingly glowless, like a Daemon…

The glass wall before me shifted itself to appear as polished silver, which snapped me out of my daydream, and I looked at my clear reflection within. Mine own eyes stared back, two bursts of crimson Light a hand long that poured from my eye-sockets, and flowed and shifted like luminescent water. I swayed my head gently and watched scarlet drops of liquid-Light spin and trail-off on the air, as if freed from all gravity a moment before they eddied into nothingness. It was the Light of OurLord, placed within us when our Souls were Forged, which poured from the eyes of the Host of Hy’Viyyenn, and its colour indicated how close to the Lord we Stood. The Daemons spawned without Light – hence, Light would never touch their eyes.

I blinked the wall back to transparency and glanced at the cubic satellites of Light that hovered about me, as I stifled a yawn. The first of them, eager to have my attention, leapt to a point on the air before me and promptly increased its size; its Light and sound filled my room. Within the confines of that glowing tl’viyah’esse sat a LightCrafted image of one of the Host, seated at a desk there before me, droning on in an inflectionless baritone about the HolyDay’s events. He wore an exquisitely tailored suit, cut with sharp, acute angles of the finest, shiniest gabardine, and coloured a trust-engendering grey. His great wings formed a double-arch above his shoulders, all platinum and mica, and his eyes appeared as long shards of deep-blue crystal that angled out passed his ears. Though only seen from midriff up, it was widely assumed that he did not wear pants.

In other news; he continued, "the Numericists have announced an increase of the required individual consumption level to seven-hundred million Siyyen, per age. Experts say the increase is due to the recent lull in Daemonic attacks upon the City; so, get out there and purchase all that you want.

"The Siyyi has increased the fines for cursing, and the intent to curse, from half a million Siyyen to seven-hundred thousand. A SpokesEjal for the Siyyi says the increase was made in an effort to ensure all have a Good and Honourable HolyDay.

"Here’s more Good News – I know it is for me; the Ehnayesse’Ay has finally released for sale its much anticipated, bubble-gum flavoured broccoli to-"

The slightest indication of boredom on my behalf chased the LightForme cube away, it shrinking as if rebuked and replaced by another as eager as the first to fill the room with its Light. That one contained a matrix of glowing, life-size items accompanied by their symbolic descriptions and costs – the newly released goods and services catalogue meant to herald in the HolyDay. Everything an Ejal could want, from commemorative furniture and foodstuffs, to hairstyles and flatware. I perused the list half-heartedly, looking for something to buy more of boredom and habit than out of need, or even want.

With the barest thought, the LightForme cubes rotated their positions ‘till one glared an angry shade of undulating red and moved to hover before me. My heart sank. I really should never have let that cube Light – live and learn, I suppose. The tl’viyah’esse expanded explosively to fill the room, enveloping me in its Light, and quickly came to shape itself into a woman sitting upon a settee before me. She was young, well into her second Aeon, with hair cropped to a coquettish, teal-coloured bob; her scarlet sclera swirled and sparkled as she looked ‘round my room before finding me again. Her wings – blue-black fur, and feathers veined with gold – stretched lazily behind her as she spoke.

Life on the ‘Morrow, Ejal Railige, she said, formally, as she held her hands – one palm up, the other out – in greeting.

Annoyed, I skipped the expected greeting and honorific, and said: What is it that I may do for you, Saydiy?

The somewhat affected exuberance of her face flattened briefly, then quickly returned to its practiced perfection. I know you probably don’t want to speak to me, but I was hoping you would want to hover about with me today.

And I, who did frown, said: Why?

And she, whose face did brighten, replied: Well, I know that you’re to receive your stipend of Siyyen today, from your Station; I was hoping you’d be able to purchase one of the new HolyDay hair-styles for me.

And I to she: Saydiy, our association was severed forevers ago; what makes you think I should do that?

Because I need it, she replied with haste.

I could not keep the disdain from my face, but she gave no sign she noticed. Perhaps you should ask one of your other paramours. What day is it today; Woden’s Day? So, that should be Therividis – or, Anudvera. I can never keep all of them sorted; I do not know how you manage.

Saydiy’s eyes did darken, then, and she said: "It’s Sar’Ejal Anudvera."

And, since he is of a loftier Choir than a mere Ejal as I, I am sure the Sar’Ejal will be able to serve you more adequately. He is, after all, closer to OurLord.

Her congenial demeanor flickered and faded, then, and she said: You owe me, Theidan – one-hundred forever’s in association with you has left me with nothing, and has moved me further from OurLord than when we met. The least you can do is spend a little Siyyen on me, so as to make up for what you’ve done.

A LightForme appeared next to her, then, a listing of Names and numerals that scrolled passed at such a speed as to be unreadable. The glowing text changed colour as it flowed passed, those entries first on the list shinning violet that faded into indigos and blues, through greens and yellows, and finally slowing as the list reached its lowliest of entries, those glowing orange and red. A white, rectangle framed her crimson Name upon that list; it blinked, and divulged her total Syh’Siyyenn – her Standing within the hierarchy of Hy’Viyyenn – and its recent fluctuations. There, I could see how her overall Standing had fallen since we met, but also that she had already regained most of it, no doubt due to her recent acquisition of the Sar’Ejal to her list of paramours.

Syh’Siyyenn was a strange thing, but was of paramount importance as a manifestation of the Good and Honoured Order in Hy’Viyyenn. It was an indicator of the Choir to which one belonged, of one’s distance from OurLord, and included not only the value of one’s amassed Siyyen and material blessings, but also one’s knowledge, skills and social attachments – all condensed by the Numericists to a single value. At the acme of the listing, as it has always been, was – of course – OurLord. After would be listed those of the Sar’Qrinn Choir – those of the Host throughout history-back who had ascended to the very heights of success and fame – and after came those of the Diru’Qrinn Choir, who sat closest to OurLord but were still manifest. Further down the SacredRuler, were other Choirs: the Dominivenn, and Tharenn, and the Vitrenn, and so on, until finally, the Ejal – the Choir furthest from the Light of OurLord. Firmly ensconced within the ranks of the lowly Ejal was I, as were many others in the City, so much so that I assumed I would never rise to a loftier Choir. However, that did not mean it was impossible. Each of the Souls within the round of Hy’Viyyenn strove to improve their Standing, to rise through the Choirs to arrive at the apex of existence – namely, to be second only to OurLord in power and popularity.

I spent twenty-million Siyyen on you before we dissolved, Saydiy; I doubt that another half-million will help either of us, I grumbled.

A million-five, she corrected.

Nevertheless – ask your Sar’Ejal, or whoever else, for such things and, please, do not address me any longer. Yours is not the only Syh’Siyyenn that has suffered because of this.

The glowing list moved itself, again, commanded by my statement, to highlight mine own Name amongst the ranks of Syh’Siyyenn. ‘Theidan Railige’ was the final, crimson Name; the last on the list.

Saydiy looked nauseated, eyes wide, lips pressed into a thin line of disgust. "Whatever. I always knew you were as useless as the ‘g’ in lasagna. Who ever heard of someone who didn’t play Aysi’Plielle; who ever heard of one who didn’t collect paramours? It isn’t normal for one of the Host to not desire. I’m not even sure why I bothered with you."

The LightForme cube collapsed into a mathematical null-point before I could reply.

I leaned back on the air and drew a long, slow breath. Verily, I had no right to be so disgruntled – my Station and Standing had never been noteworthy, so it was unfair of me to subject others to my lowly ways. Holding the least of all Standings in Hy’Viyyenn was not Essiah’En – that is to say, it was not a crime – but I still wondered what would come of me should I fall further. Those who did violate the Good and Honoured Order – those who have committed Essiah’En – were Returned to the ‘Fold regardless of their Syh’Siyyenn, the complex weavings of the Light of their existence unraveled mote by mote, and returned to OurLord…

Somewhat numb, I stared out the vast window. The Strata in which I lived stood up against the inside of the Dome itself, as far from the mountainous Tower as possible, which was not as bad as you would think. I mean, the lodgings were small and came with few amenities, and it took forever to get anywhere. But, the drain on the coffers was small, and the view… It was the view that kept me in that little box, even when there was a time I could have afforded to upgrade.

Without question, the Tower of Virtue dominated the scene; a mountain of brilliant white Light that erupted from the center of the City, up to scrape the highest point of the ShiningDome. The massive crystal atop the Tower put forth the DivineLight of OurLord, which reflected off the silvered surface of the Dome to reach every possible place within. Even from my lodging, I could see the many Lights that freckled the Tower – terraced balconies and grand archways that allowed entry to the spaces within. Arrayed in concentric rings – with the Tower as their center-point – and set upon luminous, white mist, the great Strata rose, scores of towering buildings, each a small mountain in its own right, which together housed all the Host of Hy’Viyyenn. Those Strata closest the Tower were fit for the most affluent and influential in the City, those with extraordinarily high Syh’Siyyenn. And, as did the eyes of that elevated Choir of Ejals gleam with the somber violets of the Light, so too did their HighStrata glow, the towers and spires and highscrapers limned and highlighted with those selfsame purples and lavenders. Indeed, it was the same throughout the City, as each progressively larger ring of HighStrata took on the colour of the Choir who dwelt within.

Already, the airs above the Strata filled as Ejals from all over the City took to wing, clouding together as they rose, then forming sinuous lines to enter the Tower. Soon, the Light of the T’Ezv’Tel would be dimmed by all of they who would take flight, so many there would be to witness the HolyDay. Crowds had already formed at the Enphai’Piyii – the floating archipelago of islands that lazily circumnavigated the Tower – and awaited the opening ceremonies.

Of a sudden, one of the wandering tl’viyah’esse ‘round me flickered and leapt to the fore, as it did every day at that time. An instance of one of the newer programs that, on that day, focused on an Ejal who had an overwhelming collection of tea biscuits, which had a striking resemblance to Serathrutia Nir’Pel, the most exalted Diru’Qrinn in the City. The biscuits – some I thought looked unerringly alike the Diru’Qrinn; others, not so much – were each stored under glass, perched delicately atop doilies