by me,
--
The hall before the vast arch was eerily silent. Strained to remain mute, it trembled with a tension that even the softest noise could shatter. The atmosphere, awash with a thick tranquility, was hazy with darkness and filled by a perfectly still, slightly warm air. The steady quiet was ceaseless, until interrupted by the soft shuffle of distant footsteps - the uneven gait of a limp.
Slowly, they approached, drawn towards the glow emitted by the arch. Amidst the gloom of the hall, it stood as a beacon of brilliance, shedding a rich radiance that cut through the dark. From its center originated an infinitely long thread of pure, tangible light, suspended midair and flowing across the hall, occasionally pulsing with sluggish twitches. As the traveler approached, the archway hummed a tone, inaudible yet inexplicably pleasing, indiscernible yet unsettlingly familiar - a nostalgic lullaby reminiscent of home, one that promised safety and solace.
Decorated with intricately carved linework, the arch protruded about a meter from the rotting stone walls and was, like much of the hall, overgrown with foliage and dense vegetation. The arch’s most prominent feature, however, was its threshold, which was an unnaturally bright tunnel that extended seemingly endlessly far into the wall. The thread came from this well of luminosity, a passage that stretched farther than the eye could see or the mind could fathom.
Now standing before the arch, the traveler slowed. A tall man with tired, furrowed eyes and a balding head, he craned his head and gaped at the beauty of the arch. He had come far, having traveled over the course of two weeks while deciphering immensely cryptic instructions from obscure letters, books, and journals he had luckily collected. Now, he had arrived; now, it could all be over. Still, even being so close to his destination, the man exercised caution, slowly approaching while eyeing the impossibly bright tunnel eagerly. The threshold contrasted the crushing darkness of the environment it inhabited so sharply, it had an almost alluring appeal. Now just steps away, he wallowed in the gratification it offered, yielding to the dulled mind it demanded. Its song irresistibly resonated within his psyche. Just a little further, and he’d be one with that blinding white.
The man abruptly stopped. Within his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a figure. Ripping his attention from the arch, he snapped his eyes from its threshold and turned his head away. Staring into the hall, the traveler allowed the darkness to soothe his burning eyes before losing his balance, assaulted by a wave of dizziness and nausea. Nearly collapsing to the ground, he stumbled while struggling to catch his breath. The man tried to recall what had broken him from the trance. Yes, a figure. But who else could be down here?
Panting heavily, the man squinted his eyes to dull the brightness of the arch as he scanned the surrounding shadows, desperate to see anything. Then, he found the figure once more. Sitting on the ground cross-legged, a woman of a small stature, lazily watching with a somewhat amused expression. How had he missed her before?
The man took a step back, clearly confused, and tentatively greeted her in a small voice, “Hello?” The traveler immediately cringed at the unintended volume of his voice. Though barely louder than a whisper, the words pierced the noiseless ambience with ease.
Clearly resisting the urge to laugh, the woman curtly replied, “Please, proceed as though you had not seen me.”
The man flushed with embarrassment, momentarily stunned at the situation. He took a deep breath to regain his composure, completely unsure how to proceed. How could anyone else possibly be here? The hall wasn’t exactly a tourist destination. Recalling what he had learned from the research required to find the arch, there were few who even knew of its location. Much of his information came from recounts of those who failed the journey. They each, by some means, learned of the arch and traveled there alone, only to either vanish completely or turn back, somehow dissuaded from continuing. Of those who certainly survived, the single constant was... Ah.
A mythical entity - typically described more like a natural disaster than a person - immortalized across every conceivable genre of fantasy, from tales of vengeful ghosts to books of faith. Of course the Warden, included in every recount of this journey, would be the final obstacle. How naive to assume that they were fiction. The traveler had every question to ask but could only sputter out, “You’re... real? You’re here?”
“I can imagine no other self, nor place I might be.” The Warden spoke flatly, clearly disinterested in holding such a conversation. She spoke with a subtle, indistinct accent, and with strangely archaic diction. Gazing emptily at the arch, her eyes betrayed no clear emotion or intent.
The man, deep in thought, unconsciously squeezed his face into a scowl. Perhaps even more surprising than the Warden being present was their form; given the legends, one could surely expect them to appear more formidable. Regardless, he had genuinely hoped that the arch itself would be truly unguarded. The traveler was far too exhausted to force his way through. As though already defeated, he sat down against the wall on the other side of the arch, preparing to talk his way through. “But why? Why are you here?”
“A question I, by rights, should pose unto you. You should not be here.” She paused, studying the man, then continued, “Your left leg is fractured, fastened by a makeshift splint; your neck bears scars of scratches, overtly from human nails; your attire is tainted by blood, though certainly not your own.”
For a long moment, neither spoke until the Warden, a slight grin creeping onto her face, continued, “Furthermore, you are encumbered by equipment in excess of need. Tell, why would one carry two bedrolls?”
With each sentence spoken by the Warden, the man’s face grew more pale. He hung his head, mind spinning again with dizziness. At that moment, he felt more fatigued than at any previous point in his life. In a hushed tone, voice trembling, he asked, “Can I return?”
“Most likely not.”
The words stung. The arch’s song permeated his thoughts, begging him to refuse, to ignore the Warden and just step through the threshold. It was right there. The traveler, torn, closed his eyes. “Why?”
“I know not. The birth of the Gate far antecedes my service, in ages long since forgotten. I merely serve to uphold the laws of those times.”
“But... I’ve come this far. And you aren’t stopping me, are you?”
The Warden tilted her head, her eyes now lit with slight curiosity, then admitted, “Indeed, a fair conclusion. Had I not willfully neglected my role, you would not stand here now. Had I heeded the expectations of my duty, you would never have known where to begin. From your perspective, it may seem cruel for me to oppose you only now.”
“All I’d have to do is step through that archway.”
“Yes.”
The man’s eyes shifted to the arch - it was so close. He carefully stood up, wincing in pain, and took a few steps forward. Why wasn’t the Warden resisting? All who reported an encounter with the Warden recalled greater opposition. Ignoring the arch’s allure, the man stopped and turned toward the Warden. In a suspicious and somewhat threatening voice, he said, “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”
The Warden closed her eyes and quietly replied, “I advise that you do not further delay your passage through the Gate, lest you be prosecuted for the attempt.”
“Knowing the Warden, we wouldn’t be talking right now if you wished to ‘prosecute’ me.”
“No. I shall happily fulfill my duty should the need for such violence arise.” Once again, a heavy silence fell between the two. However, she slowly reopened her eyes and was clearly considering the question. Finally, she sighed heavily. “Sit. If these insignificant matters concern you, I suppose I may afford some detail.”
The man, satisfied, sat back down, relieved to delay entering the tunnel. He did not quite feel comfortable crossing its threshold just yet.
The Warden drew a deep breath and began speaking, “In your time spent here, you have surely beheld the rivers of light that flow across the skies. Most who ponder their origin are blind to their nature; they believe the light must be celestial bodies akin to the stars and moons most recall from their pasts. Yet, the light is not an astronomical phenomenon but an interconnected stream of consciousnesses.” She gestured upward, toward the thread of light, a solid string of white that spilled from the tunnel of pure brightness within the arch, trickling and wobbling with a slow, pulsing movement. On closer observation, the thread was not one object but a dense, rushing cluster of countless infinitesimal particles flying downstream.
She continued, “From this sanctuary each branch stems, for its point is unique in its being along the edge of Lycoris. They linger above until terminating at one of many facilities, each as incomprehensibly ancient as this hall. The light withholds the minds and memories of countless departed creatures from the neighboring stage of life and deposits them here.
Whether they recognize this fact or not, many mistake Lycoris for an afterlife. In reality, it is no more an afterlife than the previous stage, from whence the light emerges. In reality, death exists not, for death implies finality. In reality, you are the subject of a single contiguous experience, albeit periodically interrupted by a change in scenery. This Gate is that interruption, the boundary between stages, the threshold of transition. And I, per the design constituted by the architects of experience, am the one who ensures this process remains wholly one-directional. I cannot stray from this location any more than you can stray from the cyclical stages of life you are fundamentally bound to.”
The two sat quietly. The man, lost in thought, stared at the river of light. The particles - the lives - had no shape, color, or texture and moved too quickly to study. It was a beautiful, if uncanny, sight. Eventually, he softly asked, “If I’m bound to these stages of life, then what happens when I cross the Gate?”
The Warden smiled slightly, as though satisfied by the question. “I know not for certain. The possibility has bothered me for as long as I recall, and yet with irony, it is my duty to ensure that the answer remains perpetually beyond grasp. Many sought the discovery - all have failed by my hand.”
At that moment, the man had a realization. It all made sense. The letters, the journals, the books - he had learned of the Gate from them, but now it was clear how he ever found them. She had said so herself that, without her interference, he would have never known where to start. Voice threatening to break, he whispered, “...You’re using me.”
“Yes.”
“From the very beginning, you took advantage of me. You pulled the strings to make me come here.”
“Yes.”
“And everything that happened... Everything I did was your fault!”
The Warden looked at the man. Speaking clearly, she said, “No. Your transgressions are your own, and only by the nature of Lycoris did you fail to know the depth of their severity.” Subtly nodding to the evidence of his crimes - the wounds he bore and the blood that stained him - she went on, “Though I know not the physiological consequences of return, this much is apparent: cross the Gate of Lycoris, and the burden of your sins shall be yours alone to bear. You may crumple under the weight of your guilt. You may succumb to the gravity of your choices. You may surrender to the consequences you have sown.”
The man broke, tears threatening to flow freely. Breathing shallowly, he gasped, “I... can’t. I’m not ready to understand what happened. And if crossing the Gate will make me feel, then I don’t want to escape.”
“You believe you shall fail, that in confronting truth, you shall suffer. Yet with much the same justification, you sought to return to a life you once cherished and the responsibilities you left forsaken. You could not accept the transition, the change of scenery. Now, it is too late to accept either path in innocence.”
He sobbed, recalling his journey here, and his facade of confidence collapsed. “Please help me. I beg of you. You’re the Warden of the Gate, right? The arbiter of these... cycles, right? Please tell me what I should do.”
“No.” She stood and walked over to the man. Looking down on him, a mischievous smile formed. The Warden lingered for a moment, then quietly spoke, “Until you decide, you will neither rest nor see an end to your suffering. However, I am patient. I shall wait.” Turning away, she stepped into the shadows, leaving the man alone.