Bright and Terrible: Part 2

This story was made using the solo RPG Bright and Terrible, by Rose on Mars.

I found for myself a lonely spot to live, a barren cliff overlooking the ink-black seas. There is a village of barbarians nearby; I thought it an amusement at best, but they have been strangely gentle and welcoming. Perhaps they remember the glory and grace that we could bestow on those worthy. Perhaps they remember our terrible fury. Whatever the reason, they do not hide from me as others have. Instead they bring me tribute in the form of minor gifts. A basket of sour food here, a shawl of rough silk there. They do not know how pitiful these offerings are, how much they burn my throat and skin. Their softest furs are scratching burrs and their sweetest fruits are acid compared to even the memory of what I lost.

Through their prayers they spoke to me, and so I learned of a child who sought me harm. Word of my survival had spread throughout the region, and the son of a barbarian general — who saw himself as a bit of a regional governor — wished to make a name for himself. The townsfolk didn’t know his plans, but the renown of one who slew an Atlantean would doubtlessly impress the locals, turning him into a God-General of everlasting name.

No matter. I was the only survivor of my people. He would find me very difficult to kill.

I did not hear of him again for many years. I did not hear many things; instead my mind was swallowed by thoughts of regret, fear, and loneliness. In my desperation, I sought peace in my meditations and experiments. My past called to me, demanding comforts that I no longer had. I pieced together half-remembered formulas and familiar practices in a meager attempt to rebuild something of my former life.

My meditations were plagued with visions and nightmares. The future and the past are all one to us, and we remember the future as well as we prepare for the past. It was in one of these visions that I saw the flickering shadow of a coiling snake. Twisting and writhing about, it became two snakes, then three, then one again as its coils tightened around the dying light. The snakes reached out to me with eagle’s talons, reaching for my flesh…

I set out the next day on a journey. I knew the vision well enough, it was an echo we of Atlantis have often seen.

The Ophidian Witches were ancient monsters, born of a power long since absent from this world. Their fevered ramblings told of ancient rituals and a bastard god-child who was the progenitor of Atlantis and its people. The court was by turns amused and repulsed by their slithering words. The nobles said they craved our dominion over the world, the power and magic we wielded. Their claim that our ancestor was a bastard served only to question the legitimacy of our standing. They were to be pitied and scorned, the Ophidian.

I knew of no other souls in this sphere who could be my ally. Truly, as the last Atlantean, who better to share in my misery than the degenerate witches who lived in such squalor and decay?

I followed the visions for a month and a day, through forest and jungle, wetland and plain. I climbed mountains and trudged through marshes until I reached the holy site of the Ophidian Conclave. There, in the middle of a foggy marsh, the Six Wives of Lind rolled in religious ecstasy.

I had never heard the prayers of the Ophidian Witches. Their quiet hisses were like waves on the shore, their writhing bodies like dance and sex. Their eyes were golden in the dimming dusk light, and their skin shone like polished metal.

One rose to speak, sliding over to me with sharp teeth bared. “We greet you, neglected-one. We praise the Mother-of-Serpents for bringing you here.”

“I am here by my own two feet,” I answered, “and by my own will.”

“Mind-shaper with will of diamond, yet never answered our call before.” The witch raised a hand to my cheek and waved her fingers through the mist from my mouth. “Now lone in the world, with no one but freed slaves to serve them. How sad and hopeless this world must be for the Mind-shaper to come to us.”

“I did not come to be pitied nor mocked,” my ire rose in my throat. The mist that leaked from my mouth burned the cold air of the marsh. “If you have nothing to say but idle invectives, I will teach you to respect your betters and then depart.”

The eyes of the witch were bright and laughing. She must have known my threat was toothless, but the memory of Atlantean fury cut deep. She withdrew back to her sisters and their cries shook the waters. “We call on ancient contract, we demand justice, we will have what we are owed.”

“What contract?” I asked.

“Far from here,” the sisters cried, “lies the Isle of the Gorgons. This most holy isle was once our home, where the Ophidian sisters sang in praise of the Mother-Serpent and played our tricks on the mortals of the world.” The marshy mists thickened until I could almost see the shapes of witches dancing among the gnarled trees and sandy beaches, worshiping a Goddess that was little more than a bundle of serpentine coils.

“Then were born the bastard children of our blood. Atlantis rose from the waters and claimed the island for itself. Willing, we were, to grant you this land for adequate price. A contract was struck, our payment was clear. A child, most royal and noble child, must wear the Helm of Brass Thorns and sit on the Throne of Iron Blades for twelve years and three days. So must their suffering be great to pay for the prosperity of the land, and thus was our bargain renewed.”

I had heard of this contract in my historical studies. The God-Queen had bestowed a great boon on a human for service to Atlantis: a kingdom of their own. The human had been greedy for coin and power and so thought little of the cost. I could see the helm and throne in the mist. It was a fair bargain; the suffering of a single child for every twelve years of prosperity. “We sealed this bargain with the mortals. Have they broken their word?”

The mists shifted again, bringing new images flying to my eyes. “For centuries they kept their side of the bargain. We felt the youngling’s pain and agony as it swelled and grew fat in their bodies. Soon there was nothing but pain, and so there was no pain. Through the empty holes in their head, we saw all the way to the Omphalos, to Lia Fáil, even to the most blessed garden. For centuries we drank of their offering. Now the wheel turns. Now we must return. Now the child suffers no more.”

“No more? The child is dead?”

“Slain by the hand of the mother,” the Witches laughed and wept and gasped in ecstasy. “Our sister whispered to her in words so sweet of her child’s pain until she could bare it no longer. ‘Better to let a kingdom die than a child suffer’ our sister said. Blinded by her mother’s heart, she believed our sister. Drove a knife into her own child’s breast as it writhed on the throne.” Now their cries became furious; “but our sister was found. Her head was cut off and buried upside down in the graveyard. They come even now with an army to slay us all. Here. Here! Here they come!”

I listened to the sounds of the marsh. The insects droned while the winds curved to and fro. The sound of hooves on mud and water slowly grew louder, and from the mists a host of soldiers rode tall; an army clad in iron and leather, wielding spears and swords of brutal efficiency. The army stopped when they saw me, resplendent in my skin as the Witches were horrid. I gripped my hammer of Orichalcum and raised it above my head. The soldiers froze in awe and fear, beset by dreams they had obviously forgotten.

Who rode in front but the chieftain child who sought my defeat for fame and glory, the second child of the Isle of the Gorgon’s governor. I could see in his eyes the lust for my blood, tempered only by the fear he held for the legends told of me. He licked his lips and pulled on the reigns of his horse, parading himself up and down the lines of his soldiers. An act of showmanship.

At last he found his courage and urged his horse forward to speak; “Bright and Terrible one, if you stand against us you stand against the will of Atlantis. The death of the Royal Child was engineered by these Ophidian Witches. Our heart and will was to meet our word, to give what the Witches demanded for our land. Were it not for their actions, we would not stand here now. I, second child to the King of the Sacred Isle, beseech you to stand at our side and grant us the fortune our bargain demands.”

I stood there, between the two forces, a fulcrum of the scales. I remembered the cruelty that our people shed upon the Witches, calling them degenerate and foul. We mocked their faith and scorned their power, though it was near equal to our own in many ways. We were no kinder to the mortals. We played with them like pieces on our game-boards. We tossed them in the air and ate them whole. We gave them scraps and laughed as they dressed like Kings and Queens, playing pretend like children.

Now I stood between them. On one side, a power that could aid me; the other, a force that could slay me. Which did I fear more? Could I accept the Witches were my kin? Dare I bend to the request of a toy-prince?

I was unaccustomed to choice of this nature. In my soul, I found my uncertainty repulsive. I raised my hammer high, and spoke with the voice of thunder, so all would heed my judgment. “Generations ago, Atlantis sat between your people and forged a bond of obedience. We were your justice, your righteousness, your guiding light. You let us rule you because we were stronger, and now, when I am the last of my kind, you seek to place me once more at the fulcrum of justice? So be it! I shall be your liege, and a kingdom fitting my place I shall have. A barren island with no mortals nor witches to plague my days and nights, save this; Any mortals who live on the Isle of the Gorgons shall be my slave. Any witch who comes to the Isle of the Gorgons to sing to the mother-serpent shall weave their magic as I will it. So mote it be!”

And so swung I the hammer, and so was it done.

Perhaps I was rash in using my fell tool in such a manner, to bend the minds of so many for such a pittance. What value was there for me in an island that meant so much more to the mortals and Ophidians than to me? But it was done. Like the Atlanteans of old, I used my terrible power to take, rather than to give. If they were so eager were they to give me power, then they would not find me unwilling.

I left them there, both army and coven staring at each other in newfound poverty, their claims and grievances turned to dust. It was not until I was many lengths away from that horrid place that I heard the whisper of the Ophidian Witches once more, carried to me on the winds.

“Unhappy soul. Last of your kind. You thought to claim from us a service unwilling, and pay for it with our ancient home. Know this was done in vain. Know that we love you, and would always fight for you as our brother.”