Metamorphosis - A fictional fever dream written by Equanimous Rex

Metamorphosis

The smells of incense smoke —frankincense and poppy— burns the inside of my

nose. I feel the smoke coat the inside of my mouth, my throat. Vocal chords intoning at

precise frequencies, drum struck in off-kilter beat, hymns and chants mix with the

wafting offerings.

The apotropaia are evoked, etched in air and soul. Like a utility belt, I have a

wide range of options, but I opt for the simple banishing mudra and psychic

pentagrammatica. Blessed is the armor with a weakness —we are force-fused to the

armor, forgetting it is an eggshell— for otherwise we would never escape.

Corpse-pose.

In-breath, out-breath.

Karmic engineering, flipping switches, all systems go. The scalpel of attention

slips between and around the necessary, finds the Root, and cuts through. I see myself

do this. I see myself see myself. Observer observing observant observer, which itself is

being observed observing, and so on. Peeling back the soul-skin, letting all the light and

muck out.

Who is in control? The scalpel cuts. A roaring sound fills my head, like television

static locomotives. White-noise industries emitting cacophonous aural war crimes.

I am dying, the thought arises. I am dying and this is the last few moments before

my brain shuts down completely. Fear envelops me, but I brought antidotes, and so the

fear subsides, leaving behind cracked images, seen without eyes.

In the darkness they walk, bearing torches. Pale, bare feet trodding through mud

and water, over rusted metal pipes, stretches of cracked concrete. The torchlight flickers

as they move, the procession of women beneath the bottom of the world. They are

wearing roots as raiment, wet stones caught up glistening in their illumination,

spiderweb finery spun by fingers inhuman. They are singing, their voices mingling with a

silent roar, the stale force of a deep, cryptal howl. Dogs weave between the legs of the

torch-bearing women. Their musk and breath fill the space. Whisps and recollections of

the dead, and half-dead— the sleepwalkers and dreaming are the banners which signal

the way.

The procession heralds She-Before-The-Gate, She-Who-Lights-The-Way, She-

Who-Holds-The-Keys. Archoness of the depths and density, the pressed-upon chthonic,

and of the spaces between them. When She arrives, Her edges scrape the sides of existence.

She moves without effort or haste, yet outstrips the hounds and Her handmaidens, who bow 

in deference.

Six legs walk, six arms motion, thirty fingers make signs, and show ways.

Holding torches of ghostlight, a key, a dagger. Thirty toes and six feet moving Her

forward. Six eyes seeing in all directions, north, south, east, west, upward, downward,

inward. Six lips, ninety-six teeth, three tongues, whispering in the gloam.

Her daughter appears beside Her, a woman radiant and beautiful, bearing a bowl

in her left hand, a yew branch in her right. Within the bowl are red berries, which she

lowers to one of the hounds, which feasts upon them. Muzzle red, berries consumed,

the hound speaks.

"Rubedo."

The hound looms larger, wolfish, suddenly behemoth, teeth like stalactites, throat

like the entrance to a mighty cave. From its back, great avian wings sprout, bursting

forth, and from its hindquarters grows a serpent's tail.

Fire bellows from the hound's mouth, who speaks in the language of the birds, in

the original words of the First Human. When the hound speaks, my body is burned

clean, my hair melts, my flesh becomes naught but ash. This is the payment for the

encroachment upon the mysteries. For daring to climb below the roots of the World

Tree.

The hound's mouth opens wider, and wider, until its mouth begins to split at the

corners. Fire belches from its eyes, tearing holes through the tattered skin of its face. All

is heat and pain. I try to escape, but there is nowhere to go, there is nothing to grab

onto, nothing to grab with. I would scream but lack the mouth or lungs to do so.

Everything is brought to one red-hot pinpoint of suffering, and this suffering lasts for

eternity.

And within this eternity, a spark, a flash, a snap. The flames become golden.

The hound's mouth finally curls back, both above and below. The golden flames

within shed its furry hide like a soiled jacket. Within the golden flames, a golden ring of

the purest metal. A broken remnant of an older cosmic system —collected by She-Who-

Lights-The-Way, savioress of all shunned things— brought here among the roots and

sewers of liminal reality. They who seemed waxen, dead, now look rosy, and vital.

Words emanate from the ring.

"I will honor the pact that I made once, for I desire to return to my former state. I

know no other way than to engage in the proper dominion of my office, in whatever

capacity it remains. I have become a dense, heavy thing, and as such, offer my fangs

and wings to the endeavors of the flame. I am the Father of Werewolves, the Ur-Beast,

Fallen-Lord, once tasked with commanding innumerable good-demons, one of the

Overseers of Mundus. It is my will to return to this office, and in our alliance I believe I

may prove myself to my former Master, for I have faith that all is but a test in the

schemes of The Name."

Without changing at all, the ring becomes once more a dog, and the dog

scampers between the legs of the attendants, into the darkness. Triple-mouths begin to

move.

She-Who-Holds-The-Keys speaks, saying,

"As the Flame was stolen, and given to humanity, at the great sacrifice of the

Artifex-Minor, so has it been taken from you, extinguished, at every turn, by those who

would see humanity returned to previous iterations. So we keep the fire lit, hiding it

beneath our ghostlights, hiding it in the Moon, in the secret between-places, and under-

places."

She-Before-The-Gate speaks, saying,

"The Flame is present above the world, and it is present below the world. The

Flame is present within the world, and without the world. The Flame is present to the

north, south, east, west. The Flame is present internally, and is present externally. The

Flame is accessible to all, should they look for it. This was the will of the Artifex-Minor

—who some called Forethought— to give the Flame to humanity, and for humanity the

Flame was intended."

She-Who-Lights-The-Way speaks, saying,

"The Flame is a treasure that one cannot spend, its value expanded when shared

instead of hoarded. The Flame is a public well, full of clear and rejuvenating water,

which never runs dry, and from which any may sip. The Flame is a hammer lent to a

neighbor, used by the neighbor to help build you a home. The Flame is a needle,

sewing different pieces of cloth together but thereby creating something greater than the

whole. The Flame is shining, warming, and inexhaustible. When it is said that the Flame

is extinguished, it is not true that the Flame is extinguished, but rather the appearance

of the Flame. But to you, this is the same as the Flame being extinguished. As such, the

Flame must be protected, but also the Flame must be shared."

"Find it, but do not keep it to yourself. Hide it, but do not keep it hidden. Give it

away, without giving away anything at all."

And with one of six arms, She pressed Her palm against my face, obscuring the

many wonders before my eyes with Her hand. Pushing me gently, I fall backwards,

expecting to feel rocky impact but instead feeling nothing at all. I twist, turning into the

abyss, feeling myself plummeting faster and faster, the roaring sound of static filling my

mind.

I'm suddenly aware of something below. Something with weight, with reality.

Something that I am about to hit.

The impact is ferocious, but without any pain.

I am zipped, like a sleeping bag, twin-bodies made of flesh and light reunified,

inter-meshed and overlapped, binding sleeper within. I had been returned —or more

accurately I had been dismissed. Incense smoke swirled around me. I'd dropped the drum, but thankfully it doesn't appear to have been damaged. My neck is stiff from my

posture, but before I can remove myself, the rite had to be closed.

Un-chanting and un-writing, repackaging and folding up, clear tones through

smoky air broke the silence. Remove wards, close up the gates, wash my face —sooty

black droplets fall to the floor. Ablutions before and after. Wet, wash, rinse, repeat. My

stomach grumbled unhappily —these sessions always left me ravenous. I had sweat

through my robes, but now felt an inclement chill.

From the window of my study, the full moon shone down like a great eye. A dog

howled in the night. Trees swayed in the wind, reminding me of that subterranean

procession. Already the event started to fade from memory, despite my training. The

Veil of Skepsis working its way through my mind, trying to edit and cut paradoxical

memories and phenomena from the record. I would retain some of it, but the rest? Fuel

for the void. A self-cleaning oven. What did remain would be examined in the light of

day, but for now, true sleep.

.