Fading Echoes
The brightest days follow the darkest nights. So said the old naysayer at Landon, who watched in fervence as the armies of Rong and Claddis battled at the fields outside Avalon to decide the fate of Namtara. He was no prophet, nor was he a wise man - just someone who dared smile in times of war. When Queen Garinthia defeated the Twin Princes of Rong in one fell swoop, she ushered in a golden age of peace and prosperity.
And so was the old man's words cemented in prophecy and prose - a promise that the everdistant utopia is within reach so long as one is willing to fight for it. Though history recorded him first as a naysayer, many would remember him a soothsayer.
Artorigus isn't sure why his mind has dredged up these old words. But staring up at the broken skies, he cannot help but hold fast to the hope within that saying - hope that is dwindling fast.
The Midnight Star had punctured a hole through Namtara. Then came the wretched beasts of Midnight - a scourge that had seemingly no end. And finally, their undoing - a yawning, bottomless chasm, bearing down upon them from on high.
The stars had gone first - swallowed in silence and darkness. Then came the golden towers of Camelot, peeling into motes, not dust but un-being, vanishing into the static of the end. The grass still fluttered underfoot as though there were a breeze. But there wasn’t. Only a stillness that stretched across all of Avalon’s horizon, like the world was holding its breath, even as it was devoured.
Artorigus stood at the edge of the lake, hands gripping the pommel of his blade.
The waters of it, like the sky, were starting to come undone - color draining from its shores into the yawning, luminescent dark of Rupture's breach. He could see the fishes stilled - resigned, perhaps, as if they too knew the end was nigh.
"It is... merciless, is it not?"
The voice came from behind him, rich and baritone. Tired. Tired in a way that shaped time rather than aged within it.
Artorigus turned to face the speaker. An elderly man, garbed in garments unlike any he had seen before, regarded him with a slow nod. He was no noble, Artorigus was certain - most of them had no doubt fled to the farthest or deepest reaches of Avalon. But he could tell that whoever he was, he radiated power. Divinity.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, good sir, yet I do not disagree with your words..."
The stranger gave a hum, lips curving up slightly.
"Ouroboros."
Ouroboros, the God of Time. The Wyrmlord, ruler of the Round Table of Gods. Namtara's chief deity.
Whether this was a mere trick of the mind or not was irrelevant. Artorigus knelt in reverence, averting his gaze.
"My lord. The waters of this place... they run dry. All beauty is lost. It is ill-befitting of one such as you."
"Do not kneel," Ouroboros said gently, "Not to me. Not like this."
Artorigus rose, gaze fixed back to the lake - or what remained of it. He closed his eyes.
"O great Wyrmlord, I beseech you to lend Avalon your aid. Lend Namtara your aid."
Opening his eyes, Artorigus gestured at the Yawning Chasm in the sky.
"We did everything we could. We all did. We bested the Vile King Vortigern and his plans for ruination, yet..." His voice cracked. “Avalon... is unraveling. The witch Maarin, she... cast some spell, holding up the sky. Yet, she... she too fell. My friends, the knights, they too..."
"I know."
Ouroboros stepped beside him. Here and now, his presence didn't feel divine. Just impossibly old. The weight of centuries stacked like a stone pillar, battered by the winds of each catastrophe that has occurred throughout history.
"You will not save Avalon. No one can - not even I."
Stunned, the knight turned to the god, confusion and pain marred across his face.
"But... my lord! If not you, then who? Is Avalon fated to fade away? Are we all... destined for oblivion?"
The Wyrmlord was silent. All was silent, save for the quaking earth and groaning sky. Artorigus could feel his knees weaken. This is the end, then, he thought.
A breath. A hum in the air. The skies halted. Time stopped.
Behind them, in the center of the road leading back to Camelot, a simple wooden door stood upright, untouched by rot or ruin. Artorigus stilled, unsure if he too was petrified. But the Wyrmlord dispelled such notions.
"... you may not save this Avalon, this Namtara. But there might be others you can."
With the slightest hint of a nod, the Wyrmlord began pacing towards the door.
"Please."
With nothing else he could do, the young knight followed Ouroboros into the door.
The door opened into a small room. It was colorless. Featureless. Just a wooden desk, two chairs, and nothing else — as if they were seated in the absence of the world. Warily, Artorigus stepped fully into the room, the door shutting behind him softly. Ouroboros seated himself in one of the chairs, gesturing at the opposite. "You are a good man, Artorigus. A knight worthy of song. That is why I've come." As Artorigus settled into his seat, he began noticing a faint ticking noise - muffled behind the colorless walls. "You flatter me, my lord, but I'm afraid my song will be lost to oblivion - as is Avalon." He responded. "Aye, and a shame it is. I know every one of your names. Across every Is. You are always the same: doomed, kind, and endlessly stubborn." Artorigus didn't reply. Ouroboros continued, tone measured. "Yours is not the only one. Namtara is unraveling. Not just yours. Hundreds. Thousands. One by one, consumed by Rupture. But I fight still, to ensure others do not fall. For that, I need those who will act where others falter. I offer you a fate unbound. To sever yourself from this timeline - and every other. To become Threadless." Ouroboros gazed out into the wall, thrumming his fingers on the desk. "...no, I need you to be more than that. I need you to become the guiding hand to steer Namtara from this cold, dark night. To echo my Voice, and let it resound throughout All that Is." With a snap of his fingers, the walls began shimmering - replaced by glass. Blue light bathed the room. Artorigus winced at the suddenness, but at last saw what was making the ticking noise - an impossible machine, held aloft by floating steel and divine magics. "...this is a lot to take in, my lord. I apologize, but... to be tasked with such a lofty mission... even I have my doubts." The Wyrmlord nodded. "I will not lie: this will not be easy. You will not save the next one. Nor the one after. You will witness the ends of many Avalons, again and again. Until, maybe, something changes." He gazed at the machine, a complex expression spreading across his face. "Yet with every iteration, the Divine Equation continues to optimize. The baseline improves by an infinitesimally small value, yet that value can bring us closer to triumph." An impossible task. Absurdly so, Artorigus thought. If Drystan were here, he would be the first to scoff and call everyone mad, before stomping off to be on his lonesome. A short pause, neither sides speaking. "...I am aware of how this sounds. Such goals are rarely worth the sacrifice. But the prize is worth the price. What say you, Artorigus of Avalon? Should you refuse, then I will return you to Avalon." Artorigus stared at the desk, then raised a hand to his mouth, resting his jaw on his fist. He could already imagine what the rest would say: Gwalchavad would chastise him, whereas Kayth would give sage advice. Laundsallyn and Gawayn, proud as they were, would gladly bear the burden. Medraut would scheme, while Borz would follow without question. And the rest would too, no doubt. ...what would Peridur say? Maarin? Or dearest Gwenhwyfar? Chuckling to himself, Artorigus rose. "Maarin always told me not to make deals with strange women in the lake. Too troublesome, she'd say. And I'd wager she'd feel the same way with this." He smiled faintly. "But this? This I cannot turn away from, consequences be damned." Ouroboros inclined his head, faintly approving. "And so?" Artorigus stood. "I will make an oath." With the flick of a wrist, ancient magics spilled forth from Ouroboros, bathing the room in an ominous glow. Thin strands of white jutted out from Artorigus, soft whispers and echoes of his potentiality. The Wyrmlord nodded solemnly. "Then we begin." The first strand was cut, and with it Artorigus winced in pain. "I swear. Upon the Everdistant Utopia."
A world of rain and fire. A man not named Artorigus wielding a blade made of bitter memories. Screaming, "Fall back!" as stars collapsed behind him.
Another string cut. A sharp gasp as somewhere, another Artorigus - perhaps an Arthur - ceases to exist. "I swear. Upon the rolling fields of Avalon."
A prince at a council table, donning a false name, trying to steer kings away from war. They ignore him. He disappears that night.
More were cut. Was this right? "I swear. Upon the three Ladies of the Lake."
A black shore. A sword driven into the body of a girl who longed for oblivion. He can't remember his own name as he screams into the fog.
No turning back now, this was the path. "I swear. Upon the Golden Capitol of Camelot."
A city in ruin. He watches it fall from a spire of glass. An unfamiliar girl dies clutching his banner. His hands are already burned.
So many threads cut loose. So many lives lost, yet with each one cut he grew stronger. "I swear. Upon the Grace of Her Majesty Gwenhwyfar."
A shattered ballroom. She asked if they could meet again at the end of the night. He could not bear telling the truth. So he lied, saying the dawn will come.
He wondered what they would think of his choice. Would they accept him? "I swear. Upon the cunning of the Witch Maarin."
A campfire in the rain. A soaked spellbook thrown in his lap. A snide voice: "Read it or die, pretty boy." He laughs. He has to.
His brothers and sisters in arms. Would they call him a monster? "I swear. Upon the Knights of the Round."
Their faces blur. Different names. Same losses. Always left behind.
This is it. The last thread. "I swear... upon my honor as Sir Artorigus of Avalon."
Him, walking into a tomb. Alone, for a trial. Knowing this time is no different. But walking anyway.
The last thread was severed. Power flooded the room. The man who was once Artorigus stood up, strength - and blood - at his fingertips. Ouroboros nodded. "So it is done." The man nodded. "Aye. So it is." And so the Voice of Ouroboros was born. A man who would be known by many names. Who would be forgotten, and remembered and forgotten again. Who would one day walk away from this seat. Who would one day remember that day at the lake, wondering if he had made the right choice. A fading echo of an everdistant promise.
The door opened into a small room. It was colorless. Featureless. Just a wooden desk, two chairs, and nothing else — as if they were seated in the absence of the world. Warily, Artorigus stepped fully into the room, the door shutting behind him softly. Ouroboros seated himself in one of the chairs, gesturing at the opposite. "You are a good man, Artorigus. A knight worthy of song. That is why I've come." As Artorigus settled into his seat, he began noticing a faint ticking noise - muffled behind the colorless walls. "You flatter me, my lord, but I'm afraid my song will be lost to oblivion - as is Avalon." He responded. "Aye, and a shame it is. I know every one of your names. Across every Is. You are always the same: doomed, kind, and endlessly stubborn." Artorigus didn't reply. Ouroboros continued, tone measured. "Yours is not the only one. Namtara is unraveling. Not just yours. Hundreds. Thousands. One by one, consumed by Rupture. But I fight still, to ensure others do not fall. For that, I need those who will act where others falter. I offer you a fate unbound. To sever yourself from this timeline - and every other. To become Threadless." Ouroboros gazed out into the wall, thrumming his fingers on the desk. "...no, I need you to be more than that. I need you to become the guiding hand to steer Namtara from this cold, dark night. To echo my Voice, and let it resound throughout All that Is." With a snap of his fingers, the walls began shimmering - replaced by glass. Blue light bathed the room. Artorigus winced at the suddenness, but at last saw what was making the ticking noise - an impossible machine, held aloft by floating steel and divine magics. "...this is a lot to take in, my lord. I apologize, but... to be tasked with such a lofty mission... even I have my doubts." The Wyrmlord nodded. "I will not lie: this will not be easy. You will not save the next one. Nor the one after. You will witness the ends of many Avalons, again and again. Until, maybe, something changes." He gazed at the machine, a complex expression spreading across his face. "Yet with every iteration, the Divine Equation continues to optimize. The baseline improves by an infinitesimally small value, yet that value can bring us closer to triumph." An impossible task. Absurdly so, Artorigus thought. If Drystan were here, he would be the first to scoff and call everyone mad, before stomping off to be on his lonesome. A short pause, neither sides speaking. "...I am aware of how this sounds. Such goals are rarely worth the sacrifice. But the prize is worth the price. What say you, Artorigus of Avalon? Should you refuse, then I will return you to Avalon." Artorigus stared at the desk, then raised a hand to his mouth, resting his jaw on his fist. He could already imagine what the rest would say: Gwalchavad would chastise him, whereas Kayth would give sage advice. Laundsallyn and Gawayn, proud as they were, would gladly bear the burden. Medraut would scheme, while Borz would follow without question. And the rest would too, no doubt. ...what would Peridur say? Maarin? Or dearest Gwenhwyfar? Chuckling to himself, Artorigus rose. "Maarin always told me not to make deals with strange women in the lake. Too troublesome, she'd say. And I'd wager she'd feel the same way with this." He smiled faintly. "But this? This I cannot turn away from, consequences be damned." Ouroboros inclined his head, faintly approving. "And so?" Artorigus stood. "I will make an oath." With the flick of a wrist, ancient magics spilled forth from Ouroboros, bathing the room in an ominous glow. Thin strands of white jutted out from Artorigus, soft whispers and echoes of his potentiality. The Wyrmlord nodded solemnly. "Then we begin." The first strand was cut, and with it Artorigus winced in pain. "I swear. Upon the Everdistant Utopia."
A world of rain and fire. A man not named Artorigus wielding a blade made of bitter memories. Screaming, "Fall back!" as stars collapsed behind him.
Another string cut. A sharp gasp as somewhere, another Artorigus - perhaps an Arthur - ceases to exist. "I swear. Upon the rolling fields of Avalon."
A prince at a council table, donning a false name, trying to steer kings away from war. They ignore him. He disappears that night.
More were cut. Was this right? "I swear. Upon the three Ladies of the Lake."
A black shore. A sword driven into the body of a girl who longed for oblivion. He can't remember his own name as he screams into the fog.
No turning back now, this was the path. "I swear. Upon the Golden Capitol of Camelot."
A city in ruin. He watches it fall from a spire of glass. An unfamiliar girl dies clutching his banner. His hands are already burned.
So many threads cut loose. So many lives lost, yet with each one cut he grew stronger. "I swear. Upon the Grace of Her Majesty Gwenhwyfar."
A shattered ballroom. She asked if they could meet again at the end of the night. He could not bear telling the truth. So he lied, saying the dawn will come.
He wondered what they would think of his choice. Would they accept him? "I swear. Upon the cunning of the Witch Maarin."
A campfire in the rain. A soaked spellbook thrown in his lap. A snide voice: "Read it or die, pretty boy." He laughs. He has to.
His brothers and sisters in arms. Would they call him a monster? "I swear. Upon the Knights of the Round."
Their faces blur. Different names. Same losses. Always left behind.
This is it. The last thread. "I swear... upon my honor as Sir Artorigus of Avalon."
Him, walking into a tomb. Alone, for a trial. Knowing this time is no different. But walking anyway.
The last thread was severed. Power flooded the room. The man who was once Artorigus stood up, strength - and blood - at his fingertips. Ouroboros nodded. "So it is done." The man nodded. "Aye. So it is." And so the Voice of Ouroboros was born. A man who would be known by many names. Who would be forgotten, and remembered and forgotten again. Who would one day walk away from this seat. Who would one day remember that day at the lake, wondering if he had made the right choice. A fading echo of an everdistant promise.
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