You come to somewhere small and remote, a cold dark corner in the furthest reaches from Arbol. Yet you can also feel the enormous energies bound here, working the great forges that loom out of the shadows. Devices mundane and outlandish, and sometimes both at once, roll off the production line “Nash is good at making things,” you observe quietly.
“Most Kenandandra are,” replies Charles. “And a Perelandra and Kenandandra combination like Nash is especially inspired to invent. Kenandandra and Sulva though… Well you would be best at taking apart the work of others and working out what makes it tick. Maybe even adapting and changing it. I suspect it would be a quiet life, tinkering away in the archives, but a satisfying one too.”
To you it seems strange that there could be comfort in such a place. At the same time, there is the strangest feeling of having come home. It does not last long as soon you are moving again.
Finally volcanic Catilindria hovers into view, its ever changing surface a patchwork of both renewal and decay. “I left this one to last,” admits Charles, “because it worries me. Catilindria can change people for the better, but the cost is sometime very high and the challenges to overcome can be great. Your adventure to England is just one example.” He sighs and pauses. When he continues his voice is very solemn. “Sulva can be a mirror, and with Catilindria that might amplify the effects. With greater rewards would come greater risks. Think carefully on that if you would choose Catilindria as your ousiarch.”
Charles isn’t saying ‘don’t choose Catilindria’, you realise, but he’s coming as close to it as he is willing to. You squirm uncomfortably again, momentarily feeling Charles grasp on your hands as you both fly upwards from Catilindria. Charles turns until his heading points him towards Glundandra again.
Yet before you reach it, the stars around you start fading. It’s almost unnoticeable at first, just a few dim stars fading to nothingness. Then the brighter stars start disappearing too, flaring briefly before extinguishing themselves. It gets faster and faster until even Arbol itself is gone.
“Sir,” you call out. “Charles?” There is no response. You are alone in the pitch dark.
Nine figures step out of the darkness, forming a circle around you. You look at each one in turn. They are you, different versions of you. Then it strikes you – nine other ousiarchs, nine versions of you. Somehow you are being offered a glimpse of possible futures again.
You examine one of them in detail. Surprisingly, this possible-you is a woman. She is tall and athletic, strong looking even. Her short tee clings tightly to her breasts and falls short, exposing pale flesh and a tight stomach. Waves of hair so blonde as to almost be white cascade down the side of her face. She looks right back at you evenly. You wouldn’t say that she seemed happy, simply satisfied. Secure in her place and confident in herself
Your gaze moves onto the next and you almost recoil at what you see. He’s recognisable as you but… The straw like hair is matted to the sides of his head and wild eyes peer out from his grime covered face. His gaze darts about, as if he is afraid of some unseen attacker. The other you’s clothes are worn and dirty. His fingernails are ragged and almost claw like.
Then you look at a third, and almost double take in doing so. At first glance she doesn’t seem like you at all and for a moment you think it’s Rosalie. You look more closely, the hair is similar to Rosalie’s and the body has similarly lean frame but there are enough subtle differences in the face to distinguish between the other you and Rosalie. The other you looks back at you with warm eyes that somehow convey a depth of sadness. They seem commanding and regal, yet somehow a little lonely.
You turn and look at another one. It smiles back at you with an easy confidence and a twinkle in its eyes. He’s you, clearly so, but somehow this you seems better fed, better dressed and overall just plain better. But there’s also a slick oiliness to him that sets you on edge. You don’t doubt that if you took his hand he would give you the firm and reliable handshake of an honest man.
You wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him
So you look at another one of the different versions of you. This one is perhaps the closest to the face you have seen in the mirror all your life. The wild straw blond hair, the bumbling awkwardness and the goofball grin are all present. In fact, the only thing that makes him different from yourself is the levered multi-lens goggles propped on his forehead. They are remarkably similar to the pair you saw Nash wearing earlier, except the lenses on the other you’s goggles seem to change colour as you watch. He gives you a cheerily little salute and you can’t help but smile faintly.
You turn your attention onto another one of the yous. Although she shares many of the same basic traits as you – the hair, the height and such – she is quite simply one of the most beautiful creatures you have ever seen. It’s hard for you to describe, as there’s no one feature that stands out. It’s the combination of them, somehow coming together as far more than the sum of the parts. At the same time there’s a strong hint of being the girl next door. Even though she is you, you find yourself getting to want to know her better. Anyone that saw her would. She would be anything they wanted her to be, but what would she want for herself?
You spin around looking at the nine other versions of you again. You pass the one in the long white coat that peers through her dark glasses as she measures something in her scales. The one in the riotously colourful and clashing clothes does not hold your attention for long Finally you notice something odd: They aren’t spaced evenly round you. Between the girl next door you and the version of you wearing a hooded sackcloth monks habit there is a gap. It is large enough for another you to stand in, although you can not see anything but shadows.
Your heart sinks. There is another version of you there, shrouded in the darkness. As you realise this you suddenly visualise him, smirking knowingly at you as you fumble about like a fool.
You panic and run, pushing past one of the alternate versions of you, sending them sprawling. You keep running until the other yous are out of sight and the stars start flaring back into life.
“Are you alright Will,” asks Charles. Your eyes flicker open and you are back in the study, breathing raggedly. “I thought I lost you for a second.”
You take a deep breath and try to relax. There was something you saw whilst meditating with Charles, something that shocked you. But the memory is fading fast and you cannot quite recall what it was. Something about choosing your ousiarch? “I’m fine now,” you insist. “I think.”
“Are you sure,” asks Charles sceptically. You nod your head. “Well if you’re certain…” He pauses, giving you the chance to say that you aren’t. Whatever that was troubling you seems to have completely evaporated from your memories though. “What do you say then Will, are you ready to make a choice?”
Just a short while ago, before Charles took you on the tour of the planets, you would have said yes in an instant. Now that he’s explained the likely effects of choosing each ousiarch, you are a little more hesitant. There is the nagging feeling that there is something else as well, an important bit of information that has slipped from your grasp that would be vital in making your choice.
Are you ready to make the choice?
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