Chapter 12:The Weave Of Fate
The space between them had frozen, rendering his attack futile.
But that was not enough. He retracted some of his essence from the unholy sword of Death. The essence of Death roared in its devouring tempest, and so the multifaceted barrier died.
The brooding dark blade pierced through the frozen space, rendering it non-existent, traveling in mere seconds to the gigantic grey orb ahead while he subdued the blade with his Dream essence.
But that brief moment was all the Winter monstrosity needed. Its colossal body retreated from the very reality of the unholy sword's line of attack, piercing the still air while unleashing a torrent of force that carved another deformed, earth-splitting tunnel across the already deformed wasteland. The colossal entity reappeared simultaneously at the birth of the next second, directly behind his dark form.
How intriguing.
This time, it was not its gigantic fist that tore through the still air. Instead, one of its massive leg stumps swung in a wide arc, propelled by sheer force that detonated the scattered boulders and suspended hills into mere fractals of ice. The impact scarred a deep chasm that encircled the gigantic crater, sending shockwaves rippling outward like a seismic wave across the fractured ground, the air itself shimmering with the violence of the motion as debris exploded in slow, crystalline bursts under the relentless pressure.
It was not ignoring distance this time.
He subconsciously recognized the threat, his eyes tracking the oncoming magnificent catastrophe.
He smiled.
In an instant faster than time itself, the impending stump of catastrophe exploded into a spray of ichor and iridescent bone, flooding the greatly depressed landscape. The fluid burned and melted the terrain like molten magma, while the force of the attack compressed the air into a sphere of discharged energy, birthing miles of eradication in its wake.
It was a short-lived victory, for the pulverized limb simply manifested before his eyes—not regrown, but re-existing. Along with it came two gigantic fists laden with claws larger than his form, defying distance as they emanated from both sides, interlocking him in an unavoidable seismic assault. Before he could warp himself away, the space before him solidified—a testament to the counter-spins of the halo behind the creature—rendering all movement impossible.
He retracted his essence from the sword, trying to defy the impossible. Or he tried to, but time, as he had calculated, would offer no compromise. Though he had frozen global time, the very concept still persisted, since the Infinite: Time still held dominance over all realities. They now existed in a region of hyper non-relativistic "time." Perhaps not until he used the full authority of Death itself—an Infinite to nullify an Infinite.
His consciousness wrapped around several deductions, but that itself would lead to the death of this needed pawn of his, which meant he had to take the most risky route.
The hyper time died, slowing the attack to some extent. A swirling vortex birthed in his palms before the birth of a second. The monster's fists still moved through the divergent infinity, only a millimeter slower than their initial speed, the ichor dousing along with them.
His mortal body birthed more cracks, dark star-laden essence creeping out from the fissures like veins of cosmic night bleeding through fragile skin, the structure of his form fracturing under the immense internal pressure as if the weight of infinite realms pressed against his very bones, threatening to shatter the vessel entirely.
The destruction of the mortal realms was at its precipice. His existential revolution was crawling to its end.
He sighed.
His hands materialized in the form of a glorious vortex: the Orb of the Dreaming.
"Lord, I must say, should you use that orb... your mortal body will pe—"
His voice trailed off Vortagem's. He needed no lowly creature to warn him of the odds of things, for he very much understood.
"Worry not, Vortagem. I have all things under control," he subconsciously spoke, the gigantic claw now a scratch away from his dark, now-cracking helm.
"Listen, Vortagem. There will be a reconstruction of my plans. A major part of my essence shall depart this mortal body unto the Fate. Until then, I need you to hold control over this fraught body."
"I shall pay heed to your words," Vortagem's voice replied.
He heaved a breath. The orb flashed violently with red auroras. The world around them—the sky itself—turned dark, ushering in the dominance of night. Stars encroached upon the clouds like newly birthed orbs. The divergent infinity elapsed in the hyper non-relativistic time, contracting before rupturing as his words pierced the air.
"I deem my existence a futility." And so reality complied, in a great suction force compressing the gigantic fists laden toward him into oblivion—an absolute nullification—along with the essence of Dream, also devoured into the imaginative realm of the Dreaming.
His subconscious swirled through the dreams, wishes, and visions of all things, all beings, all sentience—the existent and the non-existent. His body now appeared as a spectral projection: an endless humanoid night laden with stars, with two glorious halos as eyes behind the horned dark helm of Fate.
He had temporarily departed his now-fallen mortal body, bearing only a wisp of his essence—enough to fool the Ones Above, molding their thoughts to the absolute belief that he was still in the mortal realm.
Whilst Vortagem instantly projected herself unto his now-cracking mortal body, fast enough to whisk it out of the condemnation of the gigantic next strike—the effect birthing a cataclysm—into the mirror realm where time was non-existent, suspending it in a state of endless potential. A temporary reprieve, for unlike the Dreaming, this minor endless starry realm had not the magnitude to bear the essence of Dream.
It could not imprison its creator.
And such, it birthed cracks—a reminder to Dream of the frailty of time he had left.
His figure now sat on the towering formless root of the Great Vortex, bearing in its countless orbs the dreams and wishes of all sentience.
The Dreaming now felt vast, endless, beyond his comprehension. Was it because he was being limited by this now-cracking helm?
He clutched his hands before swiping them vertically, ushering himself before Lady Fate in the Grand Tapestry. His figure was a speck of darkness now before the towering bound deity, his form shadowed by the sheer size of the mortal statues singing silent praises before him, along with the ever-flowing sea woven from golden fate threads.
"I greet the Dream. I offer my reverence," the cathedral boomed itself, not from the deity.
How diminutive.
Such a malignantly low entity now speaking down on him.
"I'm afraid these times call not for sanctities but for urgency, O lowly deity." He cast his gaze tearing across the castle toward the multiple looms of fate threads, all now dark, their glow lost—a prelude to the impending doom. "I'm certain your knowledge spreads bounds to what is to come."
The Tapestry itself went still. The realm held its breath. Then the Weaver spoke.
"There once was an entity, the greatest yet the nameless, a silent watcher of all that exists and before what exists. Never was he tasked with the creation, nor was he of the destruction, nor of its continuity, nor of its story. Not merely unbound but boundless. But over time, he was burdened—not by any task, but by his omnipotence, his free will. Then he sought a cage—a cage to remind himself of how great he was. He called it curiosity. And when he finally was caged, he saw how futile it was and wallowed in his powerlessness. And such, he deemed existence as faulty—a revolution he deemed—but now, he became nothing other than a herald of its eradication. A futile cycle, I deem it."
Without pause, her voice tore the air. The cathedral convulsed in reply as his shadowed humanoid silhouette stood in it.
"That entity is you... the Dream." Her ethereal voice resumed in its glorious cadence. "It was you who made the law: the Dream cannot be the Dreamer. Now it is you who bear its burden. Why then should I offer my aid, O Dream Lord?"
How wise of this lowly deity, and how cunning of it. Surely, he gave it to this Weaver—it perhaps was the wisest fool he had ever encountered.
Boundless in knowledge, yet short-sighted in discernment.
"The eradication of every fate line of every mortal shall weaken your domain. How then would you wish to battle the Angel of Fate?" His voice lauded across the Tapestry, the very foundations of it quaking as his visage ascended the golden woven stairs before him, the realm quaking with his every step. The helm birthed cracks at each ascension. "Or should I perhaps spell it out? Should I lose my mortal body, you shall remain unbound—a mere puppet to the Grand Spindle. Do you wish that, O lowly deity? For that, I am certain, I shall grant."
His visage suspended in the stillness of time before the bound deity: darkness against the light. His convoluted helm now spiderwebbed with cracks sipping golden light, glancing at the sewn-shut eyes of the glorious Weaver.
"Do you intend, O Weaver, to forever be blind to the world itself—a slave to those no less than equals to you? I was certain I had no such wish in my vortex."
Multiple threads birthed from the ones binding her, weaving destinies as it transcended above the Tapestry.
"Just how desperate are you, O Dream Lord, to resort to meager convictions? Your mortal body was fated to die at 18. It seemed you convinced Death to release its hold. Now it comes not as Death but the End. In defiance of that Fate, you merely hastened the process, O primordial wish granter." Her voice lauded back at him.
"Just how shortsighted are you, Weaver? Should I, the Dream, thread the rules of lowly beings? Speak not to me of the End, for it also is no more than a toddler." His visage turned away from her figure. "Your story about the Dream... it bore a flaw. He, the Dream, descended into a cage not to remind himself of how great he was, but of what importance he was in a world he predated. And then he discovered the truth: through the eyes of mortals, the great Dream itself was no more than a.....bedtime delusion."
His cracked helm tilted toward her, his silhouette of night receding out of the Tapestry only to halt when the Weaver's next words pierced the stillness.
"You have changed, O Dream Lord, and it seems we bear the same interest. Propose, O one before all, how I shall offer my aid."
His fading form laced at the bound deity, his convoluted vortex now iridescent.
"Bind my failing mortal body with your threads, O Weaver. Sew it tight with your loom, and for it weave a new path—one in which I could tap more into my essence. That itself is all I need, and you shall have the Dream as your ally."
New looms sprouted out of her form, tearing across the Tapestry and the entirety of the realm itself before receding into his night silhouette, piercing it through, evading the Dreaming into the mirror-fracturing realm in which the rupturing mortal body dwelt.
Then stretching across its form, wrapping it in a spindle of golden looms, boring into skin, weaving together the entirety of the cracks, binding the skin tighter. The cracks disappeared to oblivion, the body now sculpted to near-divine perfection—a perfect restoration beyond what it was. Its hair now bore two strands of white, the black fading away like a mist.
Vortagem shuddered.
He had succeeded. The master had convinced Fate.
"It is I who offer my allegiance, and I believe that you shall grasp, O Dream Lord. This I shall never do again. I advise you limit the risks. An infinite is not to meddle with the affairs of the lower sphere. Live, Dream Lord—enough to fulfill my wish." Her voice spoke in the ethereal expanse, the binds tightening against her form more, a result of the law she had breached.
"Truly, I promise: of all deities known to all existence, you have achieved utmost importance before my eyes." His body now dissolved into nothingness, being contorted into the now-perfect helm restored by the Weaver, the structure folding inward layer by layer as if the fabric of reality itself compressed the vessel, drawing his spectral form into a pinpoint of infinite density before vanishing entirely.
"Should I not grant what you utmost desire, I shall cease to be the Dream. You have my gratitude. Until we meet again, Weaver."
His voice faded out of the ethereal expanse as the helm did, convoluting upon itself. His consciousness simultaneously returned into the mortal vessel, traversing across the Dreaming, his essence now fully encompassed into the being—prompting Vortagem out of control and heralding the destruction of the Mirror Realm. The starry expanse shattered like fragile glass under immense pressure, fissures spreading in web-like patterns that consumed the timeless void, birthing explosive voids of potential that collapsed inward, erasing the realm in a cascade of silent, reality-devouring implosions.
"I herald your return, Dream Lord," Vortagem muttered, her silhouette standing beside his now clad in the armor of a knight, pristine hair glittering in the stillness of time behind the Helm of Fate. His presence caused fissures in the Tetragram barrier while concealing it all in ethereal darkness laden with stars—a new night.
The Winter Monstrosity, which had been waiting, was now fixed on his dark silhouette.
He tilted his convoluted helm, his hands clutching the unholy sword of Death as he surveyed the monster.
Truly, this was the first time he no longer saw this pawn of his as titanic.
It seemed....small.