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A thousand years ago, Marda-B had a single faithful apprentice who followed him to the end.
The sky above the temple swirls with dark clouds as a chill breeze passes through, making Ababa shiver and draw his cloak tight around himself. Petrichor rises from the garden around him, the rich scent welcome to his nose even as he senses another coming rain.
Curious, he thinks, that the garden is only barely overgrown, when not a single hand, catfolk or not, has tended to the plants in well over a hundred years. Ababa lets his feet wander, carrying him down the winding stone paths as he ruminates on the whirlwind events of the past week. It feels now as if he had held his breath the entire time during he and his master’s frantic race to the temple and it was only when they’d passed through the sanctuary gates this morning that he permitted himself to move normally once more.
He blinks and finds himself standing before those same gates that had given them reprieve. The blue bars glow faintly, cast from the same sort of rare crystal that forms the cornerstone of divine magic rather than the usual iron that Ababa is much more familiar with.
Movement in the distance catches his eye. Their pursuers have set up camp at the top of the hill. Sunlight glints off the top of their telescopes, no doubt pointed toward the temple. The Emperor’s men have been relentless from the moment they rushed out the capital’s gates, so he does not doubt they are watching him right now, even with the gate’s enchantment keeping them at bay. Ababa steps away from the bars, retreating past the shrubbery and trees that line the path, back to the temple steps, where he finds his master waiting for him.
Marda-B has seen better days; his lavender fur ragged and rough. His plain brown cloak does not suit him very well, not when Ababa has seen him in the best finery that the capital has to offer.
“Ababa,” says Marda-B, nodding to him. His twin tails flick behind him, betraying the agitation that his careful expression hides. “Come. I want you to see the medium for yourself.”
Excitement roils in Ababa. He swallows and takes a moment to gather his composure. A decade of studying with Marda-B, of chasing fanciful stories and tall tales, of sleepless nights spent deciphering unfathomable texts—all of it is finally coming to fruition.
Ababa steps into the temple’s innermost courtyard and immediately knows he has entered a different world. The ground is a reflective blue, almost like ice, but not uncomfortable to walk upon with his bare feet. He pads forward, gazing about in awe at the massive crystals jutting out of the ground. He has to remind himself to breathe as he follows the natural path that has formed between the structures.
It is the same crystal that makes up the bars of the gate outside. So rare a material, and here it is concentrated in such a large quantity in one place! Some small part of Ababa from his days as a petty thief whispers to him of profit and power that only this divine element can bring him, but he shakes his head and forges onward without these thoughts. Defiling this sacred place is the last thing he wishes to do.
Not when their medium of choice is right here. The crystals on either side of him widen in distance, creating a small clearing within the inorganic forest. At its center stands a painted statue of a catfolk that must have been crafted from a single slab of stone. Three pairs of arms and hands form a halo around it while it raises a fourth pair to its chest. Defined red irises gaze unseeingly straight ahead—or perhaps it, in truth, does see all.
Did the catfolk of the ancient world choose this clearing to raise a statue of their lost god, or had it been here all along and the crystal field and forest simply formed around it? Ababa pauses but a few steps away from the inert god, pondering the latter option. Perhaps the ancients had worshipped it because it was here?
Ababa falls to his knees, but he does not offer a prayer. It is not his place to offer one, not when Marda-B has spent the past decade preparing to summon down the gods. Not when whatever he desires cannot compare to what Marda-B has sworn to wish for.
So he settles instead for simply sitting in its presence, basking in the faint blue glow of the crystals.
“Wake up.” Marda-B’s voice pierces through the haze of unconsciousness, and Ababa finds himself blinking awake on the crystal courtyard’s ground. Marda-B looms over him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him.
“Master!” Ababa sits up, eyes wide in alarm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”
Marda-B rises to his feet and gestures toward the exit with a tilt of his head. “Never mind that. There’s a messenger at the gates and they asked for you. It’s baffling.”
“What would they want with me?” Ababa frowns, but he lets Marda-B lead the way back outside. They walk in uneasy silence, and Ababa has to pause atop the temple steps to breathe in deep.
The messenger stands a small distance from the gate, eyeing the blue bars with obvious trepidation. They are catfolk as well, with light cream fur and garbed as a standard Meowlantian soldier. They straighten their posture as soon as they spot Ababa and Marda-B coming down the path.
“You are Ababa?” asks the messenger.
Ababa eyes him with suspicion. “I am. What is this about?”
“The Lord Emperor invites you to his camp to parley.”
Ababa’s jaw drops, and he blinks at the messenger. Not quite a dignified response, but Marda-B is swift to make up for his speechlessness.
“My brother has come here himself?” demands Marda-B.
“I have orders to speak only to Ababa,” replies the messenger, looking away from Marda-B pointedly. “Sirrah, if you would open the gate and come with me…”
Ababa manages to find his voice, shutting his jaw first so he can reply properly. “I have no intention of going with you,” he says, “Go back to your master and tell him that I do not speak to tyrants.”
A choked noise escapes Marda-B, and when Ababa glances at him it is to find an amused and wry smirk. His gaze is on the soldier though, and he sneers when he speaks, “You have heard his answer, now go.”
The messenger, to his credit, does not flinch despite the uneasy look on his face. “I am under orders not to return without Ababa.”
“Then you may sit at that gate until the end of time,” replies Marda-B before Ababa can answer. He turns on his heels with all the regality of a prince and strides away, likely back to the temple door, leaving Ababa to turn back to the messenger and offer a shrug.
“My master has the right of it,” he tells him.
The messenger grimaces, steps back a short distance, then finds himself a spot to sit down and wait.
More imperial soldiers come and go from the gate, bringing food or approaching to speak to the stubborn messenger. Ababa watches from the temple’s steps. His master has asked to be alone, and rather than wishing to explore the temple, he finds himself agitated by the messenger.
With the sun low in the sky and the shadows in the garden starting to deepen, Ababa finally walks down the path again till he is face to face with the crystal bars once more.
“What is your name?” asks Ababa, sitting down as well.
The messenger looks uneasy, but it is an innocent enough question, and Ababa is counting on the young man being raised too proper to simply ignore it.
“I am Ramab,” he answers after a moment that is not long enough to be impolite. “I already know your name.”
“Yes,” replies Ababa, “I thought it unfair so I fixed that. Have you been a soldier long?”
“…two years,” answers Ramab. His brow knits together as he eyes Ababa. “Sirrah, I hope this line of questioning does not mean you think we can be friends. I am merely here to do as I have been tasked.”
“Which is to take me to the Emperor.” Ababa chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, I only hoped to make small talk, but that clearly has no point now.”
“No, it does not,” says Ramab, gaze dropping from Ababa. “Sirrah…would it not make both our lives simpler if you simply come with me?”
Ababa snorts, which earns him an indignant look across Ramab’s young face.
“Simpler for you,” says Ababa, “As I said before: I do not wish to entreat with your tyrant.”
“Emperor Ramda-A is no tyrant,” growls Ramab, tone and expression shifting so suddenly it catches Ababa off guard. “He’s a just ruler who’s only done what’s needed for Meowlantis!”
Ababa blinks in the face of such unprompted loyal fervor, understanding now why the Emperor had sent such a young soldier to retrieve him rather than someone more experienced in negotiating. Someone as passionate about the Emperor as this, in Ababa’s experience, could not be swayed by Marda-B’s spirit and ideologies as easily as the average would-be B-daplayer.
“Very well,” says Ababa. He rises to his feet and dusts off the bottom half of his cloak in a futile gesture. “Ramda-A’s methods are tearing this empire apart, but I know well enough he shall not stop being your hero no matter what. Perhaps you do not remember the late Empress’s reign, but even she was a kinder and more just ruler…and that’s even with her people hating her far more than they hate your Emperor now.”
Ababa does not wait for an answer before turning away, and it is strangely satisfying to ignore Ramab’s shouts of protest and anger that follow him all the way to the temple door.
“Is it not funny,” says Marda-B, after Ababa informs him of his conversation with Ramab. They’ve come to the statue’s chamber, where Marda-B has been fiddling with the statue. “That arguments tend to end when you bring up my mother?”
Ababa winces. “When you put it that way, Master…”
Marda-B glances down at him, away from the statue, and smiles gently. “Nothing I am unused to, Ababa. She was a formidable Empress and an even fiercer mother.”
Not once in the past decade has Marda-B spoken this much, or so fondly, about someone from his life as a prince. Ababa’s heard plenty about his brother, but it was often in unfavorable ways and more to do with the Emperor’s reign.
From the way Marda-B turns back to his work, magic flowing from his hands into the statue, Ababa supposes that was the extent of what he is willing to say on the matter, so he sets his focus on the statue as well.
“Master, allow me,” he says, raising his hands. Magic bursts from him, always more explosive than his master’s precise spellcasting. It surges to the statue, enveloping it for a moment as it merges with Marda-B’s magic before dissipating as the stone absorbs its every thread.
“Good work.” Marda-B touches a hand to his, sending a shiver down Ababa’s spine. Their lingering magic mingles and twines, and Ababa finds himself too aware that they are very, very alone and that it has been a good while since they last had time to breathe and be themselves. The crystal forest is quiet, the gentle blue glow comfortable.
“Marda-B,” he murmurs.
Marda-B does not look to him, only returning his attention to the statue. Magic once again flares around him. “We must keep going.”
“…yes, of course.” Ababa quashes the disappointment his heart dares to feel. This is neither the time nor place for any sort of intimacy, so he gets back to work.
It is draining work, letting the statue take more and more from him. They keep going late into the night, taking breaks here and there to regain their strength. Ababa holds fast, knowing this is the last step before Marda-B’s plans come to fruition, and only stops when Marda-B suddenly gestures for him to step back.
The statue brims with magic and emanates a faint hum of power.
“Go and rest,” states Marda-B, “A new age is about to dawn on the empire.”
Ababa’s sleep is fitful.
Nonsensical visions of his master grace his mind. He has seen them before, strange dreams of his master withering away until only an eye remained. This is what awaits, something whispers to him. His master turns to him and swears to never cast another spell and they flee and escape into the countryside where they are unknown and they take on new identities and a lifetime plays out in an instant as Ababa lays there tossing and turning. This is what could be instead, that same voice whispers to him.
Choose wisely.
Ababa rolls onto his back and sees no point in trying to rest further, so he simply lays there in his bedroll and stares up at the stonework of the temple ceiling. He cannot guess how long he stays like that, but eventually, he realizes Marda-B is not in his own bedroll at all.
He rises with some difficulty, then groggily takes stock of their dwindling supplies as he forgets what he dreamt of. They have enough for perhaps another day, so he wolfs down his daily ration of dried fruits and meats and makes his way to the statue chamber.
Marda-B is, as he suspected, already there, magic trickling from him toward the statue. Wordlessly, Ababa strides up to him and raises his hands as well, drawing upon his freshly replenished well of magic and letting it surge forth.
“Wait,” says Marda-B, “I need you elsewhere.”
Ababa blinks, his magic faltering as he looks up. Marda-B’s gaze meets his, expression curiously placid.
“Master?”
“I believe your caller is still at the gate.” Marda-B turns, wisps of blue magic trailing after his hands. With a simple waving gesture, they bounce toward Ababa and engulf his body, making him jump in surprise. Marda-B chuckles as it fades to a faint tingling against Ababa’s fur. “A simple warding spell, my dear apprentice.”
“You are expecting danger soon?” asks Ababa, recalling his prior lessons on such spells, temporary as they are. “Surely the sacred walls will keep us safe.”
“It is danger for you alone that I am expecting, I’m afraid,” replies Marda-B, turning back to the statue. “I need you to go with that soldier to my brother.”
Ababa blinks and stares up at him with wide eyes. “What—but why?”
“I’ve realized,” says Marda-B, “That my brother may be more open to hearing my ideals should it come from someone other than me.”
“Master…” Ababa frowns. “Master, that makes no sense.”
It is a familiar moment that has repeated itself through the years. Marda-B proposes some silly scheme, Ababa scowls and shoots it down, and they launch into a quick debate over it. Routine as such a scene has become, Ababa fully expects Marda-B to respond appropriately.
Instead, Marda-B shakes his head. “Do not question me, Ababa,” he states, eyes narrowing, “It is crucial to our plans that you go to my brother and persuade him.”
Ababa stands there stunned.
“What makes you think I can persuade him when all others who have tried have failed and just…never returned?” demands Ababa once he regains his composure.
The flow of magic from Marda-B pauses, his arms raised while poised still to continue casting. A moment passes, the silence between them growing to a length Ababa did not anticipate, before Marda-B scowls.
“Just go*,*” he snaps, “And do not question my orders again, Ababa.”
Ababa’s jaw drops, and he’s rooted to his spot. Marda-B has never spoken like this to him, so why now? When they’re so close to the completion of their years-long mission?
“Go, Ababa,” says Marda-B, and he is no longer even affording Ababa the courtesy of looking at him. “I will not repeat myself again.”
Ababa shuts his mouth, then opens it to speak, only to quietly close it again. Such is his shock, that he cannot even summon any wit for his master. Years ago, he’d stood in front of Marda-B as little more than a common criminal and Marda-B had sworn they would be equals in the world he intended to build—and equals did not treat each other like this.
But what good would saying anything now do? Ababa grimaces, lingering just a moment longer. If his speaking to Ramda-A were truly necessary, then he would only be delaying Marda-B’s plans if he bothered to argue. He sighs and turns toward the exit.
Something gives him pause.
Surely it is only wishful thinking, that Ababa so strangely feels as though he stands on the edge of a momentous decision.
He turns back to Marda-B. “Master,” he says, “I will do as you ask, but…we shall have to talk when I return.”
Marda-B says nothing, focused on the statue as he is. Ababa sighs again and steps out. He makes his way out through the garden to find Ramab still waiting.
It is only as he walks through the gates that Ababa realizes Marda-B said nothing about returning to the temple.
Ababa allows himself the walk to the Emperor’s camp to mope and sigh about his master’s strange behavior, but once they come up to the row of tents on the horizon, Ababa shakes his head and clears his mind.
Ramab leads him through, and Ababa is acutely aware of all the soldiers’ eyes on him. He looks only straight ahead, at Ramab’s back, carefully keeping his ears focused forward as well despite the whispers surrounding him. He can guess quite well what sort of mocking things they must be saying about a critic of their beloved Emperor.
“Good work, Ramab.” Another catfolk in grander armor approaches them, nodding to Ababa’s guide. “Come see me later for your reward. I’ll take over from here. And you’re dismissed—go get some rest, soldier.”
“Yes sir,” replies Ramab, looking quite gleeful. He doesn’t look at Ababa as he starts his way back to the tents.
“One more thing,” says the officer, giving him pause, “The rebel hasn’t said anything…inflammatory to you, has he?”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” says Ramab, impatience welling up across his face.
Ababa frowns. Rebel? Is that what he and Marda-B are in the eyes of the Meowlantian empire?
Ramab is dismissed for real and Ababa falls into step behind the officer, who looks at him only to check that he is still there as he leads him further into the camp. This suits him just fine. Ababa takes this time to assess the layout of the camp from what he can see, calling upon old lessons and skills he has not had to for a long time.
Always have an escape route.
They soon come up to a large open area that has been converted into a makeshift throne room. Emperor Ramda-A has brought most of his court with him, and they bustle and flit around him in busywork, disgruntled as they may look having been forced to leave the gilded halls of the palace. The Emperor himself sits on a throne carefully crafted from stone atop a dais, a temporary symbol of his power to keep his troops in line, and he has garbed himself in regalia Ababa can only call unfit for what is supposed to be a military camp. Gold ornaments and shining jewelry adorn Ramda-A’s white armor and flowing capes, no doubt to keep himself the center of attention.
To Ababa’s surprise is the presence of a second throne beside the emperor’s and its occupant—Empress Arma, her pale yellow fur a contrast to Ramda-A’s purple, her garb far more practical and suited to the camp, and her frown disagreeing strongly with the wide smirk on her husband’s face.
“Your Majesty.” The officer bows low and deep, and the court around them quietens and stills. “I have brought the rebel known as Ababa.”
It prickles still to be introduced such, but Ababa does not show his irritation. He holds still and stares directly toward the Emperor and Empress, hoping the impropriety he’s displaying must grate upon them. Or at least, upon the Emperor, given the sympathetic look the Empress is granting him. The court murmurs and the officer rises from his bow to give Ababa an irate look.
“Excellent, Commander R-mara.” The Emperor rises from his throne, waving off the officer who is quick to retreat and leave Ababa to fend for himself. “Well then, Ababa, attendant to the master of rebels Marda-B, what have you to say for yourself?”
Ababa takes care to mask his emotions, to hide the growing terror in the pit of his stomach, to keep his tail and ears as still as can be. He has not been a thief in a long time, but it is easiest to slip back into such an identity to keep himself on his toes. “Why, I didn’t realize I was meant to prepare a speech.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrow; the Empress takes out her hand fan and covers the smile on her face.
“Allow me to handle this, my lord.”
A new voice cuts through the unhappy murmurs of the gathered court, one that Ababa recognizes even before he’s turned around to gaze upon the speaker: an owlfolk woman with pure white feathers, garbed in the finest golden silk produced in the capital, striding toward the throne. This time, Ababa does not try to hide the relief that flows through him.
“Atenai!” Ababa steps close as she comes up beside him. “We thought you dead! Come, let’s return to our Master together and leave this silly place behind.”
She looks down to him, and the gaze in her red eyes is not kind. “You are mistaken, my dear friend, for I am not here to defend you.”
Ababa blinks as the pieces begin falling into place. She was one of Marda-B’s many other followers and the first of them to disappear, before the others who had gone to Ramda-A to seek diplomatic solutions. He stares up at her, jaw growing slack, as he struggles to answer where she might have been all this time, if she is not dead, if she is here in Ramda-A’s court—
“I am here to establish you and your master’s guilt.” Atenai spreads her wings, letting them fill the space around her, blocking out the rest of the court, and Ababa involuntarily backs away. “I am, after all, a priestess of the B-damage, and thus I am granted this special duty. You and Marda-B shall finally answer for your crimes against the gods and against the empire.”
“Crimes against the gods? …Our magic?” Ababa glances around. His escape route is increasingly becoming difficult to determine. “When has it been a crime to cast a spell? And if I recall, Atenai, you were there too! At my side, learning to control your magic from Master Marda-B!”
There is a great noise and fluttering of feathers as Atenai’s wings snap back to rest at her back. She has always been easy to read, and Ababa can see the plain rage in her eyes.
“No, not our magic,” she answers, though her gaze darts over to Ramda-A, and Ababa does not hesitate to glance over as well to find him watching with interest. “Marda-B’s would-be crime is that he intends to invoke the gods and become one himself.”
This sets the court off, cacophonous whispers and the occasional shout. Atenai has left much unspoken, but Ababa can guess what she wants them to believe.
“Do not be a fool.” It takes all of Ababa’s willpower to keep his voice steady. “Marda-B does not want to be a god, nor does he want the throne. What he wants is to better this country, to alleviate the suffering—” He turns, pointing at Ramda-A, “—that this tyrant here has allowed to spread and take root in all of Meowlantis.”
Atenai opens her beak to reply, only to be cut off by Ramda-A himself. His loud, uproarious laughter fills the air, enveloping the room and quashing the noise of the court until all other sound has died for him.
“To think,” says Ramda-A once his laughter has subsided, “That my brother would inspire such loyalty in a common criminal like you. Tell me, Ababa.” He steps down from the dais, looming over Ababa as he approaches. “How do you think Marda-B intends to, ah, ‘better this empire’ if he does not intend to steal my throne?”
“He—” Ababa stops. He has never questioned this: that Marda-B wishes to improve the state of the empire and to return all that has been stolen to the common folk. But now, he stands here under Ramda-A and Atenai’s scrutiny and finds he cannot quite answer, not when Marda-B has never said anything about the throne. “…He is only a Sage. What need does he have of the throne?”
Ababa knows he has not answered correctly. He is here under his master’s orders, but, all at once, he is not certain what those orders are. Doubt creeps over him, causing him to shake with agitation as he considers his master’s actions lately.
It takes him a moment to realize it is the ground beneath his feet that shakes.
Guards rush at once to the Emperor’s and Empress’s sides, reaching out to keep them stable. Atenai spreads her wings and pushes off into the air with a great flap, causing Ababa to stumble as the wind knocks into him and the shaking intensifies.
The tremor ends, and the court is silent.
Ababa coughs as he picks himself off the ground and takes in the damage. The court is in disarray, the soldiers are all alert. Ramda-A has managed to stay on his feet.
Ababa turns and runs for the exit.
It is just as well that he does, as the tremor begins again, this time accompanied by a great rumbling noise that washes over everything, claiming even the shouts coming from the rest of the camp. The only noise that rises over it is a horrible cracking noise—Ababa glances back in time to see the stone comprising the dais and the throne split into two, finally throwing Ramda-A off his feet.
He makes it out of the makeshift throne room, and runs back through the camp, dodging the chaos of tents being thrown about and soldiers rushing this way and that. Ababa drops to all fours as the rumbling grows deafening, but he does not lose pace, not even when his cloak catches on something and tears off him, and soon he breaks out into the field between the camp and the temple—
The sight stops him in his tracks, and it’s all he can do to keep on his feet.
A beam of golden light rises from the temple into the clouded sky.
“Is this your master’s doing?” someone shouts behind him, and when Ababa turns, he realizes it is Ramab.
“I-I don’t know!” he answers, “This is not what he said would happen…!”
“Then your—your master is a liar!” Ramab starts to make his way toward him, carefully stepping as the tremor continues. “Can you not stop him?”
Ababa runs.
When Ababa reaches the temple as the tremor ends, it is not like his arrival with Marda-B not so long ago. This time, the gates open easily for him, but he races through just as frantically, and it is still fear and urgency that laps at his feet. The garden hasn’t changed much, still far too neat for its abandoned state, but this time, it is not empty.
Atenai stands at the temple doors, wings folded at her back.
Ababa stops as he comes up to the steps.
“Not only has he invoked them, your master has angered the gods.” Atenai gestures at the door. “He has doomed Meowlantis as much as he has doomed himself.”
“Then so be it,” replies Ababa. He marches up the steps and past her, touching one hand to the door. It responds to him, the magic that had sealed the doors momentarily calling him forth, and he knows at once what he must do. “Should you not be with your master? Last I saw, he’d taken quite the nasty fall.”
“Ramda-A has all my warding spells.” Atenai scoffs, then shakes her head. “Ababa, do you understand that whatever you find in there…you are not likely to make it back out.”
“Hm, I thought you were not here to defend me.”
“Ababa, this temple will be your tomb—”
He does not care to stay and listen, stepping through the door. The magic hits him as he moves through, harsh and bearing down on his own, far stronger than his master’s and Ababa understands: Marda-B has made a grave mistake.
He steps into the crystal courtyard and the magic only grows. It buzzes about him, whispering between his ears and tugging at his fur, and when he gazes down at the reflective ground, he does not see himself but a shadowy creature watching him.
The statue is still there, and at its feet is the crumpled heap that was Marda-B’s cloak.
“Master…” Ababa strides forward, thinking of his doubts and how Marda-B had changed by that final time they stood here together. None of those things matter, he decides, as he picks up the cloak and holds it close and he falls to his knees as he weeps into it.
“Master…just what did you wish for?”
The courtyard is silent.
The news spreads quietly but swiftly, reaching all corners of the Meowlantian empire in but a single night: the Hero and Sage Marda-B is dead.
Pilgrims traverse the unsteady land to the sunken temple that is his tomb, where it was swallowed by the ground, where the Emperor was made a fool and forced to retreat to the capital. They have matches before the bright blue orb that sits before it, to celebrate the sport that the Sage had so loved, and they share stories of his heroics, to celebrate his life and that of his dearest followers.
At night, they hear the cries from within the temple, the wailing and weeping of his B-daman, and they pray to the gods above, to the B-damage, that it might one day be reunited with its master.
- Back to: Of Meowlantis