[SOLO] City of Dust [Mengyao]

[kuropeco]

If I close my eyes I can hear the voices.

They're quiet at first; unassuming, soft whispers that remind me of the gentle waves that moved to and fro against the white sand of the Isle. Like the waters, they bring stories on their tongues, tales from near and far; a vast wealth of knowledge to listen to and to entrance me.

But most of all, most importantly, they bring memories.

 

[kuropeco]

I don't know how long I've been here.

It feels like years, but it tastes like seconds.

Maybe it's only been a single moment in time; just a fragment, a splinter, a shard cut out of the everlasting movement that is time itself. Or perhaps it's been longer. A month spent in solitude, a week in contemplation, a year in resolution.

A lifetime drowning in emotion.

Someone once told me that I wasted my time on useless things. That I put too much pride in meaningless issues, in trivialities and superfluous, materialistic things, squandering away what little intelligence I had in favor of something a lot less important.

People need to stop making assumptions.

For one thing, I believe it's hardly the business of anyone else what I choose to do with my life. It is, after all, my life, and if my actions do not directly effect them, then why should it matter what I do?

There is only one person who my life concerns other than myself, and she is not so shallow as to judge me for my life choices.

I can hear the whispers again, and they grow louder every day, or so it seems. They press against the inside of my skull, line my thoughts with buzzes and hisses and murmurs that create a distinct pressure. Sometimes it feels as though I can hardly breathe, can hardly formulate a thought that is not tainted with grey.

My life is ashen.

Am I awake or am I asleep? I can no longer tell. Everything is blurred, one thing sliding into the next with ease, with a quick fluidity that makes it next to impossible to distinguish between one and the other. I find myself merely existing, no longer alive but simply being here, as though I occupy a place in space and time that is purely my own. My realities are twisted, contorted, until I cannot decipher which is which.

What is real and what is a lie?

 

[kuropeco]

I can see someone up ahead.

Strange, for I thought this space was my own; a place within my own mind, a reclusive area where the grey does not just taint, but infects and consumes, where it is me and I am it. There is no end to one and a start of the other. We are each other.

There is laughter. How long has it been since I have laughed?

Perhaps this is a dream, a thought, a whisper of an idea. Perhaps this space inside of my head is not just occupied by myself, but by someone else as well.

Perhaps it is the manifestation of the grey, a personification of that which haunts me.

"That is untrue."

Oh? Then what are you?

A shrug - or maybe just an idea of one. "I am you, of course."

Of course this is true, but simultaneously it is untrue.

A whisper of a smile. "You know me."

Do I?

Something gold glints through the grey. "You do."

Who are you?

"I told you. I am you."

Where are we?

"You know that too."

Inside of my head.

"Yes."

Is this a dream?

"It is...an answer."

What is my question?

"Oh, Mengyao."

It is strange, hearing my name come from his lips. As my thoughts sharpen, so does his image, and I can see more flashes of gold, of bright scarlet, deep and rich, of harsh blacks and smooth browns, of a dark blue as blue as midnight. He stands before me, a reflection, though if I raise my hand he does not raise his. We are not reflections, at least not directly.

What are you?

He is not smiling, but his face is calm. "Somewhere inside, you already know the answer to that question. I am a part of you, after all; we share many things. I am a fraction of everything you are, a piece of your thoughts that has been torn away. I am a whisper ripped from your voice, a fragment of your perception."

He's right; somehow I already know this, but hearing it said so plainly makes it all the more real - whatever 'real' is.

"Are you real?" I ask, and this time he does smile, albeit quietly, gently, as though the question amuses him slightly. Perhaps it does.

"I am as real as you wish me to be."

I give a small, ungainly snort. "That is a cryptic answer."

He shrugs a little, and I see the glint of gold again, this time at his hip, where a long, golden sword hangs from a strap tied to his belt. This surprises me, just a little, as I use a bow and arrow, but I suppose in due time it will be explained.

"Where did you come from?" I ask, and he looks at me, his face identical to my own, though there is no grey that passes across his face, no marring of the pale skin.

He is not dying as I am.

"I come from you," he says quietly. "But I come from elsewhere too, a different space that occupies my heart in spite of the fact that I do not exist anywhere else other than right here."

His answer confuses me. I tilt my head to the side, trying to understand what it is that he is telling me, what he is trying to explain to me.

"Where is that?"

There is a small, gentle smile on his face as he replies,

"Edric. I am from Edric."

 

[kuropeco]

The name is familiar, yet I do not quite understand why that is. I strain to recall where I have heard it before, why it does not feel odd to have the sound of it roll off my tongue.

Edric.

"Where is this place, this Edric?" I ask, though I suppose I already know the answer.

The person across from me looks at me, the corners of one side of his lips quirking, just a little, as though he is encouraging me to answer it for myself. After a moment, however, he says calmly, "It is a place in your mind that I have occupied for some time. But regardless of how I came into existence, the fact remains that I existed. And now I am a part of you, whether you wish me to be or not."

Do I wish him to exist? That is a strange question. I did not know whether I even had a choice in the matter, though it seems as though I don't. A part of me wishes for simplicity, for him to simply disappear and for my memories of him to fade away, as though he were not there at all.

But a deeper part of me wishes for more, wishes to know if the whispers curling at the fraying edges of mind are, in fact, what I want them to be, what I need them to be.

I do not know what I want anymore.

"That's okay," he says. "I know what you want."

Do you?

"I do."

How?

"I am you. You are me. We are the same and yet we are not. I know what it is that lies deep within your heart, just as you will know when you awaken from this dream."

Is that what this is? A dream?

He shakes his head a little.

"No. It is a reality. A different one, perhaps, but a reality nonetheless. It is a reality inside the confines of your mind, and there it will stay. It is a good thing for you, but for me..."

He trails off, his expression shifting. I watch as a myriad of emotions flit across his familiar face, and it is like watching myself in a mirror. The appearance without the grey is so startlingly normal, however, that I have to stop myself from crying out.

My heart aches.

"I will tell you of Edric," he says. "Listen to me and I will explain."

Will you?

"Yes. Though there is a part of you - the part that isn't me - that already knows of it. This is just to remind you, to give you back what you have lost."

Why?

"Why am I giving it back or why did you lose it in the first place?"

Both, I suppose.

His smile is faint.

"I will tell you everything."

 

[kuropeco]

He is right.

When he speaks of Edric, it's as though it he is telling me a memory that I have already had, reminding me of a past that has already occurred, even if that past and those memories did not actually exist within the realm of the awakened.

And I remember.

I remember the Kingdom of Gold, the sweeping lines of the palace, the glittering scarlet drapes and the intricately detailed tapestries hanging on the walls. I remember the feel of the sword in my hand, the weight of the metal as I lifted and swung, the feel of sweat sliding down my brow.

I remember the people.

I remember the faces as they pass, of those closest to me. He explains the statuses, the ranks of those that I took to be my own personal companions, those that were to be my most trusted advisers. I hear the names and they sink into my thoughts, ingraining themselves within the confines of my head, away from the traitorous whispers of the grey that seeps into my body. It is like hearing a story I have already heard before, and as he talks I can see the faces in my mind as though they are standing right beside me.

A feeling of dread settles into my stomach as he continues. These are not all names of those within my own kind. There are a few of Conquest that are familiar, and a few of the other Clans which I can tolerate. But the names that follow these - even the names of those who are listed among my most trusted - are not names of horsemen.

They are of Halloween. And, more astonishingly, they are of them. The humans, the hunters, the ones who wish to see us dead.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I do not want to hear the rest of the story, I do not want to hear that I have placed my trust in those that would see me destroyed, in those that care little for anything except violence and hate. I suffer from my own personal demons, but having them beneath my command makes me irrationally angry.

Our realities are shared, after all.

I remember lots of things as he talks, never exuberantly, always quiet, calm, collected. I remember the battle, I listen to the words he is speaking with a certain tenseness, as though waiting for him to drop something else, something bigger than being a traitor.

And then he does.

I suppose it is because we are one and the same that he does not need to mention her by name for me to understand who he is talking about. There is a look on his face that surprises me when he speaks of her - gentle, so very gentle, his eyes soft, his smile quiet and small.

"I loved her."

Loved her?

"But I loved the her that existed in my world, in my heart."

They are different?

"Yes. Not a great deal, but they are. They are one and the same, as you and I are."

What does that mean, exactly? Why are you telling me this?

He lifts his head, looks at me steadily, and I can see it in his eyes, know what it is that he is going to say before he says it.

"Because I want you to do as I did."

My throat is dry. My heart is beating loudly, so loudly, against my chest.

Why?

"You know why."

I don't wish to.

"But you do."

You are a King. An Emperor. You, who have defeated the other six kings to become the greatest of them all. I am not. I am nothing in comparison to your grandeur.

"I am not the greatest. And that is surprising, coming from you of all people." He tucks his hands behind his back and paces slowly, looking skyward - or rather, in the direction of the sky, should there be one. "You, who hold yourself in high esteem, you who understand your place in this world better than most, you who know who you are without a doubt."

But I don't. I don't know who I am.

The admission startles even me, but I swallow my pride and hesitation.

"You may not yet. But I do, because I am you."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead I merely sigh, and he looks up at me, a smile on his lips as he surveys me, and once again I am drawn to that pale, blank face, a face that is unmarred, untainted by the grey that cris-crosses over my own face, sinking into my skin, into my very being.

So what now?

"What do you mean?"

What do you expect me to do with this? You have awakened the both of us; surely there are repercussions to such an act.

"Perhaps. But there is good to come of this, I am sure."

How can you be so sure?

"Because there is always a chance that something good can stem from bad, and you know it. You cherish that thought, even if you do not allow yourself to believe it."

That is...

He lifts his hands from behind his back, stopping his pacing to stand in front of me. We are the exact same height, of course, and he looks at me with a curious expression in his eyes, narrowing his gaze just a little as though scrutinizing me.

"I may be a King, but you, Mengyao...you will understand one day who you are."

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

He is fading. The grey is becoming stronger, but there is white flowing in through the cracks, shifting the hue of it to become lighter and lighter.

"Wake up, Mengyao. Wake up, and you will remember. You will not forget what I have told you."

But what do I do with this knowledge?

"Whatever you wish to. That is your choice, not mine. I remain here, forever in your thoughts, forever in this land that is mine and mine alone."

Where you are King?

His laughter is one of the last things I hear.

"No, Mengyao Miao, of the Isle of Conquest.

"Where I am myself."