Bahamut, The First Sword-Saint of Almachadta

: “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

: “What was it supposed to be like?”

: “It was supposed to be me. It was only ever supposed to be me.”

: “To bear the Mask? Or to carve it?”

: “To bear the Mask. I was the first. I should have been the only. But then there was a second, and I can’t imagine—“ -it shudders, whatever it is, it exhales, and you feel the heat of it against the back of your neck. “How many there must have been.”

: “I am the sum of all of them,” she says. She feels its breath on the back of her neck. She does not try to turn and look. “My name is Salme. Why did you think you would be the only one?”

: “You remind me of her. The second one to bear the Mask.” It inhales. “I was supposed to live forever. One beast to wear one Mask. To forever comfort the world and hold its truth.” It exhales.

: “But I died. The world burnt, and I was dying. And later – somehow – when the fire stopped – I crawled out of that cave, and scratched a gouge into the wall, and looked up at the Centrelight.”

: “And then she found me. And she told me, let me take away your burdens, great beast. You have suffered enough.”

: “You had suffered enough,” she says, and she does not know, but she knows. An entire cycle alone, from start to end. That is more suffering than anyone should bear. “Had Almachadta burned before your carved the Mask, or did you simply know that Almachadta would burn?”

: “I am not its Maker. He…” The voice goes soft, gentle. “He knew. I don’t know how. He never told me. But he knew it would be necessary.”

: “Did you know him then?”

: “I knew him always. Until his last day.”

: “I told him I would carry what the fire couldn’t. And then I… died.” It exhales, controlling itself.

: “Before she passed the Mask on, she told it– she wished to tell me– that she had found a successor. That she would pass the Mask to someone she knew could carry it. So that she would not die as I did. And she lived, after that. For quite a while.”

: “So that I would feel, a little less, that I had failed her.” Its voice is gentle when talking about her, too.

: “There is no shame in dying,” she tells it. “All things die. There is no shame in anything you did. It sounds like you should perhaps turn some of that gentleness inward, toward yourself.”

hrrfs.

: “I do not feel shame. I feel…”

hrrfs, again, stubbornly.

: “I am dead. I am a memory. I do not -feel- any thing. I just wish it could have been me.”

: “Hm.”

: “Does a memory not feel anything? I don’t know. I am not yet a memory, though I will one day be. I still think—You do not have to be good. / You do not have to walk on your knees / For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. Was that a poem you knew when Almachadta was young?”

: “Hrrrrrfffff.” That’s a yes.

: “I would like answers. I would like to know you. But I recognize I am in a place where I probably shouldn’t be. If I try to look at you, will you disappear?”

: “I don’t know. Nobody’s ever tried before.”

: “I think the Mask might want me to know. I also want to know. And if you disappear, I’ll simply find you again.” She closes her eyes and turns around, then opens them, looking for it.

: “Hello,” she says. “You’re beautiful still, even having borne so very much.” She offers it her hands.

reaches out a paw. (The pads of its paws are cracked, and rough, and charred but - the touch is still impossibly gentle.)

uses both of her hands to hold the paw. Her touch is also gentle, because she is not, by nature, gentle, but she knows how to be. “May I ask your name?”

strokes one side of its paw with her thumb.

lets out a slow rumble. There’s a long pause before it responds. “He gave me the name Bahamut.”

: “And do you like the name Bahamut? Is that how you wish to be called, to be remembered?”

nods, slowly. “It was a gift. I treasured it while I lived.”

: “Then I will remember you as Bahamut, First Sword-Saint of Almachadta, high-leaping cloud-chaser, protector of all.” She presses a kiss to its paw, like she would a lord. ⁂

: “May I ask my questions of you? Of the Carver, and of the Mask itself?”

🙧

rumbles, very slowly, and had the fire left it more, it might shed tears. “You may.”

: “You knew the Carver. What can you tell me about him?”

: “He was…” It tilts its head up. “I think he could do anything.” It sounds wistful, but in a way that– the memory brings joy. “He sung me awake. He woke many trees, and beasts, and rocks.”

: “He said that most people did not remember how to do that. That it was something important. That we should wake, and sing, as well. But that the people who did not remember were important, and should be protected, and loved, and should protect and love in turn.”

: “Had you slept before, then?” She thinks of—she tries not to think. She tries only to know.

: “I… moved, I breathed, I hunted. But I was not awake. I did not yet sing.”

: “Can you tell … do I sing? Or have I forgotten too?”

gently exhales. “Yes, you sing. You are singing right now.”

breathes in, and exhales as well. “Okay.” She strokes his paw more. “You said you would carry what the fire couldn’t. Did I misunderstand? Was the fire supposed to carry something?”

looks immediately concerned. “Has the world lost those who carry fire?”

: “Oh. No. I don’t think so? The … ember priests?” She suddenly wishes Wolf was here. He would know better what to ask, how to interpret. Or Aury, or Awa, or Unua, or Archie or—but they aren’t here. It is just her, and she will have to be enough. “I wasn’t sure … so often the world ends in fire. I was confused.”

: “The yeresh? They still exist.”

relaxes, and gently wiggles its paw, comfortingly. It can’t read her mind, but it can read the way she tensed, and it rumbles, soft, comforting. “Then they still carry the fire. There is truth that the fire carries. And truth that I was to carry. Which you, now, carry. More truth than I ever shouldered.” It’s not self-deprecating, though– it sounds proud of her.

: “And I could never leap through the clouds. We all have our strengths,” she says, but she’s blushing.

: “Can you tell me what the Mask’s Will is? I. Am doing something other than what I ought. I am trying to break the cycle. I know many others have tried. I know nearly all have failed. I am trying nevertheless.”

looks, briefly, confused, and just as briefly, distraught, and then it pauses, and breathes, slowly, its paw flexing very lightly against Salme’s hands. And then it says, “Oh.”

: “The Mask’s Will, as its Maker made it. To permit its bearer to be that which the world would require in order to survive, and live. For me to play the role that the world needed of me. Eternal and unburnt.”

: “And then after I burnt, and died.”

: “Somewhere along the line.”

exhales, painfully, pronouncing the passive voice carefully, “It was decided that fighting the world’s fate harmed more than helped, wasn’t it?” Soft, slow, rumbling exhale. “I can see it. I can feel it.”

: “But not from you.”

: “It was decided. And it was the right decision. For centuries it was the right decision. Millennia. But then something impossible happened, and I discovered there are other worlds, and that we were all one once, and that we might be able to save each other.” ⁂

: “I doubted, Bahamut. I doubted at first. But I have to try. Because we have been making the best of a very bad hand, but it can be otherwise, I think. I hope.” ⁂

: “I thought my only future was dying with Almachadta. I thought I would carve my tallymark and set my head on the stone and die before I reached thirty. I don’t think that anymore. And I know you’re just a memory, but. Take what hope you can in that we have endured, and endured, and endured, and we will, finally, hopefully soon, flourish.” 🙧

would look directly at Salme, with clear bright crystal eyes that once comforted an entire cycle of Almachadta, if the fire had left it enough to. But it turns its head towards her. “Then you are not doing something other than what you ought. You are being that which the world requires. In order to survive, and live. As I did. As every bearer of the Mask in between has done. This was my master’s will. It lives on today.” And it sounds… profoundly, immeasurably calmed, by this. Lowers its head, slightly.

: “Being that which the world requires, in order to survive, and live.” She takes a deep breath. “Yes. And I will always do so. Whatever else I do, I will always ensure I do that.”

stretches up as far as she can, on her tiptoes, to kiss the bridge of its nose. “What can I carry forth into the future for you, Crystal-Eyed Bahamut?”

shivers softly, and presses its enormous nose very gently against Salme, and for a second she knows what it must have felt like, to curl up against its side, to press your face into its fur, to go from being terrified and shaking because a monster was going to eat you to knowing that everything was going to be alright in the world. That its master’s will lives on. That its hopes live on. And it rumbles softly, and it says, “Remember us. Remember that we lived.”

’s laughter is gentle and warm. “Of course. I was going to do that anyway.” She enjoys its warms another beat longer, and then steps back. “The second Sword-Saint. Can you tell me her name? I want to find as many of us as I can. I want to sing your names for everyone to hear.”

exhales very softly in reminiscence. “Her name was Daina.”

draws in a shaky, shaky breath. “Daina, then. I’ll look for her next. Anything else before I go?”

shakes its head, from side to side. Churrs, very gently.

“Then I will remember you, Bahamut. And I will see you again one day.” And then, like she was falling-flying, she is flying-falling, upwards this time, out of the Mask.

is learning perhaps to not conceal itself to understand to observe the bearer’s companions the metal-cousin and the fox-eared boy that makes the mask’s bearer smile and this ember-singer as well. but mostly it is staying out of the way.

inhales slowly and deeply, nostrils flaring a bit at that familiar-yet-not scent. “Hrrrf.”

: “You can also ask anything you’d like to know, brother,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. “Light knows I ask enough questions myself. Are you ready?”

laughs. “I suspect the vast majority of my questions are reserved for what waits below.” He gives a firm nod. “In we go?”

: “In we go.” And then she jumps.

jumps as well–because he’s going to get pulled in if he doesn’t, and he might as well go of his own free will.

goes very still for a moment–generally the correct instinct when one is being snuffled at by something quite large.

: “…Zosimos?”

can’t not turn at that, eyes searching for the source of that voice. “I am afraid not, friend. Do I have the honor of addressing the first Sword-Saint, the one known as Bahamut?”

: “You came back. And you brought someone with you.” And a nod, then, at Wolf’s question.

: “Yes. I came back. And you remembered,” she beams at it, even if it cannot see her in the darkness. “This is Wolf, World-singer, my chosen brother, a yeresh of Almachadta. I thought you might like to meet him.”

is arrested, utterly, by the sight of Bahamut, eyes going wide, something like mingled shock and awe rippling across his face–he takes in the ruin of bone and ash, yet gets a glimpse of what this being must have looked like in the height of his glory. His eyes well with tears, trembling fingers reaching up in a half-formed move to touch Bahamut’s face before he catches himself. “Goddess bright,” he breathes, voice ragged.

: “He is a (person who carries the fire).” It’s a statement, not a question, and the beast sighs with something that is, at the very least, a distant cousin to relief.

collects himself with a visible effort, though his voice betrays some of the emotion that must still be swirling beneath the yeresh calm. “I am, honored Elder. In our time, we call them yeresh, Ember-Priests. I hold the Fire.” His chin comes up at that, even as his lip quivers–pride at being able to say that to this great and grand beast written in his every line.

: “Was … Zosimos also one who held the fire, Bahamut?”

takes another slow, deep breath of a new-old scent in the forgotten air, its own voice rumbling with emotion. “Zosimos. He who sung me awake, and carved the Mask. He… hrrrrf.” Its head sways back and forth. “He carried the fire.”

: “He who carved the Mask? Was a yeresh?” The naked shock in Wolf’s voice is not something Salme has probably ever heard before.

Heard the shock in Wolf’s voice, but wonders—“what did it mean to you to carry the fire, Bahamut?”

: “He was a (person who carried the fire)- hrrrf.” Bahamut paws at the darkness that yawns below and to all sides of it.

frowns, gently, hand lifting again, but he hesitates, again.

: “(It welcomed my touch, Wolf. I am certain it would welcome yours.)”

addresses Wolf, as if to answer Salme’s question. “There are things which you Know? That the fire revealed to you?” And it catches a curling current, this time, or Wolf’s scent - and, incredibly gently, presses part of its nose against his hand.

makes a soft sound deep in his throat, something like a cough, but wetter, and tears spill down his face as his fingers spread, ever so gently, across fire-seared skin. “I do, Eldest. I see mountains, and…and the sea, and a Tower. I hear the Songs of the worlds, and the stars.”

: “I do not know what they mean, Eldest, but I see them.”

lets out a very slow, very deep, rumble, in lieu of trusting itself to speak.

: “Before he died, he…”

: “He spoke truth into the fire. He taught people how to carry it. He said that there were things that ought to be remembered forever.”

: “What happened, Eldest?” Wolf says his voice a ragged plea. “We don’t understand. We don’t understand why the worlds are this way. Why these cycles recur. What purpose it serves, if any. Why…” His mouth works as he wrestles around a throat that no longer wants to obey him. “Why is it like this?”

had dropped Wolf’s hand, but now reaches out to take it again, to squeeze it. “We apologize, because this is a heavy question to ask. But also we … are trying to understand everything there is to understand. In order for as much as possible to survive, and to live.”

rumbles, again, softly, and presses its enormous snoot against Wolf’s other hand. “He said– he told me about a world ‘before.’ A world that broke. He always sounded like he was sorry. Like he felt responsible for what had happened. But he also—“ -its voice is fond. “He always sounded like he felt responsible for -everything- that happened. I don’t– hrrrf. He, also, asked ‘why’, and he sounded much like you, when he did so. When only I could hear.” And it rubs its nose against Wolf’s hand, again, incredibly gently, in a way that suggests a thing it’d once done to try and cheer Zosimos up, too.

trembles, a vicious shudder that goes through him from head to toe–his fingers threaten to clench and curl, but then he takes a slow, deliberate breath, and his touch gentles. “I am glad he had your comfort, friend.” Softly, so softly. “I swear to you. That which you suffered shall not be in vain. We will redeem the hope you saved for us.”

: “Can you … tell us more about him? What did he look like? What—did he mention anything else about the world that broke? You said, in the beginning, you did not know how to Sing, and Zosimus is the one who taught you. That he sung you awake.” She looks at Wolf for help. “Does … any of this sound familiar to you?”

rumbles, thoughtfully. “I remember… he looked like a human, but… more. Brighter. His eyes were very kind. He was already old, when he sung me awake.” Another soft rumble. “And he told me that- the world he knew had been beautiful, but that the world I knew was, also, beautiful. I know that is not an answer to -any- question, I…”

: “That is an answer,” she says, firmly. “We met. We’ve met at least two men who remembered the world before. And I was trying to figure out if it was either of them. If it could have been. But I think … the Architect did not love the worlds as they exist now nearly so dearly, and the Omniclast,” she shrugs, and then she looks at the darkness around them and adds. “Bahamut, is there a deeper level we could reach? Deeper than even here?”

: “You have done more than enough, great Elder,” Wolf adds, gently. “I am sorry. In our own desperation, we grab at any straw. I do not have…more questions, but…if I may? Do you…do you remember his Song? If you remember, strongly enough, I think…I could hear it. I can Hear more clearly than most.” He smiles, wistfully. “I would like very much to hear it. A song of Eld.”

rumbles, and paws at the darkness, and the rumbling turns into a low hum you can feel in your bones- simple, unadorned, and it’s a melody you’ve heard before, that you’re well familiar with- that you’ve heard arranged to lyrics with your mundane ears, even, in Synthesis’ voice.

cannot help the way immediately everything falls away, and a haunting certainty fills her—though, certainty of what she couldn’t say. She turns to look at Wolf.

picks up the melody–even the baritone thrum of his voice is a good octave higher than Bahamut’s, and it lends a deep warmth to the notes…a melody like wind through the trees, brightly bittersweet and defiant by turns. The first song that he heard, before waking up in the Sanctuary’s silence. He sings it through, once, then lets his voice fade away. “Oh,” he says, faintly.

looks, briefly, overcome, when Wolf’s voice cuts in, but it keeps singing, until it feels like the right moment to stop.

softly, his voice thick with tears: “His song is known, Eldest. His song is still sung.”

: “How,” she begins, a little roughly, and then, more firmly. “Can you tell us how Zosimus died?”

: “I am glad.” And then, to Salme, and gently, and very very softly: “Curled up against my warmth, surrounded by his students and friends. He lived much longer than humans lived. But he was very old, and– he said it was his time to return to the worldsong, having done what he could, and so.” It bows its head. “We sang for him, and carried on his will. He knew that– something was going to happen. The Mask Shrine. It was prepared for me; I knew where to find it. He told me, before he died. That he did not know what would happen, precisely. But that something would, that he had prepared the world for it, as best as he could. And.” It paws at the darkness. “Hrrf.”

looks at Wolf, sidelong, asking him, silently, to stop her if she pushes too far. “And then sometimes happened that killed you, who should not be killable.”

sighs softly, and simply says it. “Was there a hunger? A hunger that needed to be burned to stop?”

does not flinch. But its tail lashes, somewhere, invisible, doing profound violence to the air. “I remember the Canker-Gall. I tore them apart, and I ate them ravenously, and there were still more, and still more. And then they- then there was fire. An awful song, from somewhere, and the Canker-Galls caught flame, and- all Almachadta with them, and I knew that what Zosimos woke me to survive was happening, and—“ ⁂

: “I remember the -sound- I heard inside the Mask Shrine. Like Almachadta was being ripped in half and chewed like a ripe fruit. And then, even in the Shrine, all I remember is the fire.”

: “But I did… I did survive. I lasted long enough to pass the Mask on.” It glances towards Salme, and nods. Not going to make any claims that it didn’t Do Enough, this time.

: “Do you know from whence the fire came? That is what I keep trying to figure out. Wolf carries the fire. I am fire. Almachadta burns, but is the burning the harm, or the only thing that can save what we have?”

growls, low in his throat, jaw set–but he caresses that ashen nose with the back of his hand, ever so gently. “Thank you, Eldest. That is the end of a cycle, then. Hunger, then fire.” Glances back at Salme. “But things will be different this time. We know more than we did. More than we should.”

: “I am not afraid of knowing,” she says firmly, certainly. “Do you know where the fire comes from, Wolf?”

: “No, I do not.” He smiles grimly. “But we may now know how not to need it, at least. If we are correct.”

: “I still want to know, if I can.”

paws at the not-ground. “Fire is fire. It can warm and it can burn. Zosimos said that whenever you eat something, the body burns it.” It hunkers down, a little. “What I want to know is what made the sound I felt reverberating through the soil. I want to know what cracked the world to feast after searing it to satisfaction. And I do not and I cannot know, but I pray that you can.”

shudders, at that description. “A…ripe fruit to be consumed. Oh.” He blinks, the absolute horror of that idea settling in. “Oh, Goddess bright.”

: “And a well-cooked one,” she says, and it’s something of a joke, but there’s no humor in her voice.

’s throat works, and it looks like he’s trying to suppress nausea and horror all at once. “If we were wrong, and the fire isn’t to save the world from corruption…”

: “Then there’s another function that begins the cycle anew. The thing that devours the world. And most ripe fruit has seeds …”

rumbles, presses its snoot against Wolf, again.

: “…which you plant again, to grow new fruit…” His fingers curl in, just a little, against Bahamut. “…oh gods above and below.”

’s voice is a ragged, horrified whisper. “If they’re not unstable, but…being farmed?“

: “Oh.” She sounds ill. “Oh, Light.”

growls at a frequency one feels as distinct pulses.

: “That…that would explain why they all…at the same time…”

: “But what would be eating them? And what …” she shakes her head and grasps on to the only question she can think of. “Bahamut, when you lived, was there always a gap in the pattern of the constellations? An Empty Space in the Sky?”

looks up at Salme sharply. “Did Zosimos speak of…a sun? Was that a truth he gave to the fire?”

rumbles, and then rumbles! “Yes, and yes. Zosimos– when he spoke of the world he knew and the world I knew, he– he often said that he loved and missed the sun, but also that he loved the Centrelight, that they were not the same but that he was… happy to have been able to bask in the light of them both. I was always– curious. What it must have felt like.”

softly, gently: “Bahamut, Elder and Eldest. For the knowledge you have given us, the memories you have endured, the suffering you have felt…may I give you a gift?”

smiles gratefully at Wolf. “Are you going to share the memory of …? And if you are, may I … join you?”

squeezes her hand, nods–and, perhaps surprisingly, does not give her a tone…but a rhythm, felt in the squeeze of his fingers; the slow steady thud of his boot heel in the darkness. Something to Circle to.

matches the rhythm, and closes the circle by touching Bahamut as well, tapping gently on its cheek where the Mask sets. She thinks of the three of them, old roots, deep roots, entwined. Flourishing and burning with love and despair and determination.

tilts its head to the side, curiously. “A gift is not owed, but if a gift is offered, I would not refuse, (fire-carrier).” And it presses in, rumbling low, and harmoniously, and with a surprise that becomes rather more tangible and immediately -felt-.

waits until Salme finds the rhythm and only then adds a tone–a bit of Zosimos’ song, and a bit of his own; a melody of steady warmth and deep determination…a warmth that roots in the Fire he bears, passed from hand to hand, flung at times, into the future from the dark of a broken past…and then reaches in himself for a memory. A memory of that step into the Library…a memory of sunlight, warm and bright and loving, so loving, endlessly loving… It loves us. And wants us to live. And, just as he did with the memory of Almachadta for Caion and the nooplankton, he casts it outwards, up into the darkness, a brilliance in the night.

exhales, very soft but very forcefully- you do not feel it experiencing the warmth, but it’s a very very close thing, and there’s no mistaking the soft exhale of wonder.

holds the memory of sunlight as long as he can, burning as long as he can–but no memory lasts forever, and he finally lets it fade with a huff, sagging against Salme so as to try to not sag against scorched flesh. “Hhfff.” And then he laughs, because it’s so similar to the sound that Bahamut has made in frustration.

chuffs, almost playfully, at Wolf, in delight.

catches Wolf even though she’s a foot shorter than him. She’s small, but strong, and she hugs him. “That was magnificent.”

straightens, albeit with an effort. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He smiles wearily at Bahamut. “We have found the sun. What that means, we…have no clue. But we know that which we should not. We can do that which we should not be able to do. O, Elder and Eldest. So long as we live and burn. It will be different this time.”

: “And,” she adds, “I too want to know everything. So your spirit lives on in the current Sword-Saint, even today.”

rumbles, pleasantly dangerously. “Good.” The corner of its mouth wrinkles, smile-ishly. “Then burn brightly, my friends. For me and for Zosimos, as well, who cannot.”

nods. “Is there anything else you’d like to do here, Wolf? We can always come back.” She pauses, then reconsiders. “We will come back,” she says firmly.

shakes his head. “I think…I think that I am tired.” And he must be, to admit it so readily. “There has been much learned, and much said.”

rumbles, once more. “It was. Very, very good to meet you.” A pause. “You remind me of him. It was–“ -it rumbles. “It was good to meet you.”

: “You honor me,” Wolf says, and his voice is thick. “And I am honored. To be spoken of in the same breath as one such as he. I carry…” His voice fails for a moment. “I carry his fire. I will. I promise.”