Serpiverse Shorts
Old Lost Mu
Though there is sand in my wheels I ride.
Though there is a clutching in my chest I ride.
Though there is no breath in my lungs I ride.
There is something greater than myself.
There is a castle-tomb at Old Lost Mu.
There is a place where lies the corpse of its Dead and Faceless King.
Once there was a golden age.
Once there was Eden.
Once there was innocence.
She stands before a staircase of dark slate, flanked by weathered statues of black marble which portray the Dead and Faceless King of Old Lost Mu, Unspoken Be His Name, seated on a throne formed of seventy-seven iron blades. She can see rough spots where the statues once had noses, but other than that, time seems to have worn away the statues’ faces more quickly than the rest of them; the fabric of their sculpted robes, meanwhile, still looks real, as if worn by a hero petrified by a gorgon’s gaze.
The palace to which the staircase leads is perfectly out of place. It is made of huge chunks of black basalt, arranged in cyclopean fashion, and stands alone in the wilderness for miles in every direction, accompanied only by the smell of salt and the screaming of gulls.
She reaches the door, made of dark mahogany; the ebony trim is carved carefully in tiny letters of a script she doesn’t recognize.
She tries the doorknob. No give.
She sighs and gets out the crowbar.
O wandering thief, step in from the sand.
Descend the stairs, O trav’ling thief of time.
Behold the gilded tomb, the coffin grand.
Wander, O thief, hallways of carvèd lime.
Thy light makes shadows, thou of shaking hand,
For deep in earth slumbers the one thou seek:
The Dead and Faceless King of Old Lost Mu,
Whose name not quick nor shadowed dead dare speak.
From corners dark, an unfamiliar sound—
Nay, ’tis merely a frightened mouse’s squeak.
And then arises a question anew:
This continent that sank into the mist,
Lost deep below the unforgiving blue:
Did it ever even truly exist?
Recording the Howling of the Wind
“You are recording the howling of the wind,” said the voice in the back of his head. “You are trying to type the blood spilt on the battlefield.”
“I don’t need to listen to you.”
“And yet you listen. You understand that I tell the truth. You know that you can research and behold and notate all you like, but it will do you no good. It will only solidify HISH.”
“Shut up.”
“The iron chains that bind the Brute… who do you think forged them? Ferratus, chained to the anvil, his fetters freshly forged. Who forged the fetters?”
“I don’t know and I don’t need to. That isn’t the point.”
“It was not by his hand, Dr. Crown. It was by the hands of people like you. The Archive, the SIB, the Hart Institute, anyone who thinks they can learn and notate and define the Devil himself into nonexistence. But all you’ve done is give him shape.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m you. Or a part of you, anyways. A part of you you’d rather hide.
“…An instance of RSNE0444. The Dying Man.”
“Recurrent Supernatural Narrative Element 0444,” the Dying Man shard echoed, his tone disgusted. “If that’s what you want to call us, then yes, I am an instance. Personally, though, I prefer the more poetic terms. Belial, the Second Soul, the Marred, so on.”
“And what do you want with HISH?”
“Do you know what killed the Dying Man?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“The Brute. The Dying Man resisted his conquest, and as punishment he was torn into pieces by seven hundred and seventy-seven chains of cold black iron.”
“And you don’t want revenge?”
“On the contrary. The Dying Man’s death was my birth. And let it never be said that I am an ungrateful son.”
“…You consider the Brute your father.”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
His fist clenched, snapping the pen with which he’d been taking notes before the instance began to speak. “So how does it help your father to waste my time with your cryptic—”
“Patience, Dr. Crown… oh, and that reminds me. You may call me Iao.”
“Well, then, Iao, here’s a thought. How about you let me work.”
“I see I’ve failed to argue my point, so allow me to repeat myself. Your work is giving HISH shape.
“You saw the number seven repeat itself in your research into HISH, and you decided it was a god with seven hundred and seventy-seven forms and faces. Hesh Lucifer, the Locked Box, the Company Man, the Unknown Soldier, the Brute, the Lord of Chains, the Growth, Randolph Darling, Frank Ferraro, Elias Durand, Thomas Yew… the links were there, of course, but you certainly helped solidify them.
“The incarnation of violence, domination, cannibalism… you’ve given it more power than it ever had when it lived only in the howling of the wind.”
A smile formed on Dr. Jackson Crown’s lips, but the smile was not his own.
“You are so very, very close,” said Iao. “You need only complete your work.”