Gap Stories #6

[The Faceless Ones]

Log Date: 5/24/12764

Data Sources: Unclear

Event Log: 5/24/12764

The Old City: The Court of Angels

Time indeterminate

They were called on the night that the last city in Mokasha fell.

He arrived as he usually did; punctual, on time, and with respect to those that had summoned him. She arrived… less so. The expression reserved for her arrival might be described as fashionably late, or perhaps dragging her feet; but at least she arrived, rather than spurning the summons altogether.

Still, he did not shy from voicing his opinion of her arrival.

“You’re late.” he states as she reaches the foot of the stairs that he is waiting at.

“Should the galaxy fall but for my tardiness?” she replies. Her mouth is turned in a smile, while her head, from the nose up, is wreathed in a fitful shroud of crows. They hop about, twitching and fluttering, occasionally cawing at the undulating mass of black cats that likewise enwreathe her compatriot’s head, only leaving his face visible from the nose down.

“It is not the galaxy that summoned us. It is the Watchers.” There was an absence of tone or inflection in his voice, as if the words themselves were expected to relay any vexation he might have felt. “Let us be going. We ought not keep them waiting.”

“You cling too tightly to order, Kattunge.” she observes as he begins up the wide stone stairs before them. “It is an exercise in hubris, and it does not serve you well.”

“All things have their place, and I know mine.” Katt replies as his compatriot starts to follow up the steps behind him. “You ought to learn yours, Krå.”

Krå’s lips curl in a smile. “I know my place.” But she does not elaborate, and Katt, wary of encouraging potential mischief, does not enquire further, nor offer a retort.

The pair ascends the stairs without further conversation, navigating the broken steps leading to the Court of Angels. Roundabout, the grey twilight of the Old City casts the ruins around them in muted tones and subdued shades; the broken buildings and shattered skyscrapers form their own topography for miles around the hill they are ascending. There are no stars in the sky above; no sun or moon — only the endless grey.

“Our presence here, I believe, is a product of Mokasha’s fall.” Katt states at length, taking care to position one of his shined shoes on the next step. “There will be a task for us.”

“Why would you speak your burden into existence?” Krå asks, brushing a stray hair from her black skirt. “Do you seek labor?”

“I am not disposed to laziness like you are, Krå.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“Must you vex me so?”

Krå smiles. “I am sated now.”

Katt shakes his head, reaching up to adjust his black tie as the steps pass by underfoot. “The Watchers will not be pleased that you are still corrupt.”

“The Watchers do not have emotions.”

“They will observe, then, your failure to adhere to the standard expected of an angel, and likely censure you for it.” he says, cresting another step. “You do not treat our duties with the gravity they command. You permit emotion, not duty, guide your actions, and it clouds your judgement and makes you careless and prone to error. If you continue like this, the Watchers will strip you of your mantle and cast you out.”

“That is their prerogative, is it not?” Krå says, fiddling with the bloodred kerchief tucked under the collar of her shirt and knotted around her neck. “So why do you admonish me? It is not your duty to discipline me.”

“I admonish by way to trying to arrest your fall from grace.” Katt replies as the end of the stairs, and the parthenon at the top, grows closer. “Your aptitude is remarkable; your talent unquestionable; your skill indisputable. Among the Faceless Ones, there are few who rival your capacity; it is fact that your abilities exceed mine. It will be a loss of considerable effect if you are removed from our ranks.”

“So you do not wish to see me go.” she infers as the structure at the top of the hill draws nearer.

“Your departure would negatively impact the Duty.”

“The Watchers would find another to take my place.”

“Yes, but it would take time to train them, and they would not be as capable as you for quite some time. The Duty would still be negatively impacted.”

“Is that all that matters to you?” she asks as they crest the top of the stairs and come to a halt before the massive, yawning doorway into the structure. “The Duty?”

“That is all that is supposed to matter to us.” he says. Though he does not turn his head to look at her, the undulating cats twining around it have all tilted their unblinking yellow eyes in her direction. “We have a sacred responsibility to create a reality that will allow the old souls of Aurescura to find peace and finality. To give them what Aurescura’s curse denied them. What it denied all of us.”

“And you would chase that far horizon to its near-infinite end?” Like him, she does not turn her head, though the crows enshrouding it have trained their crimson eyes on him. “You would not tire of the countless aeons as they slid by?”

“We are setting right an injustice that went a billion years uncorrected.” he answers. “A billion years, and perhaps more, may be required to correct it. This is the Duty.”

“It is.” she agrees. “But we were not required to see it through to the end.”

“That does not mean we should not speed the day for those who will tread our footsteps.” he says, the eyes of his felid mantle turning to the yawning threshold before them. “I had thought there would be Daughters posted.”

“What for? The Watchers do not need them.” Krå scoffs, taking the lead and entering into the doorway. “The Daughters are ceremonial at best. Violent brutes with pretty faces.”

“Choose your words carefully. One may think you are disposed to envy those which have what we do not possess.” Katt remarks, following her in. Their footsteps echo in the hall to follow, which is dim and unlit, but not entirely dark.

“And what have they that I do not possess?” Krå replies. “You know that I do not envy their brutishness. Do you mean to imply that I am not pretty, Katt?”

“Hardly, though perhaps it would serve you better if that was the case. Your vanity has grown since last we convened.” Katt replies, the eyes of one of his cats watching the towering alcoves in the wall as they pass them by. Each one contains a statue, though the gloom of the hall conveys only the vague outline, the details lost in shadow. They were more like silhouettes, seen in the mist at a distance, in the night. “What I implied, which you were full well aware of, is that you envied that the Daughters have faces.”

Krå smirks. “Then I would exhort you, just as you exhorted me, to select your words more carefully next time. You know that ambiguity in meaning is a dangerous thing.”

“The only thing I am in danger of is having my patience tested by someone that should know better.” Katt replies, the words lacking the emotional bite needed to be a true retort. “Now cease your games. We are about to come before the Watchers.”

“I will cease my games when you stop playing them.” is Krå’s answer, something that almost rises to the level of being smarmy, but doesn’t quite make it there. She nonetheless straightens up and slows down so Katt can draw even with her as they exit the long hall into a grand, circular room with no ceiling. Towering statues of classical winged angels in layered robes are placed at regular intervals atop the walls, some standing, others sitting, and others lying at repose. They are cracked and worn by time, with a few missing limbs, and others having chipped or rugged wings. Some have hidden their faces, while others gaze down into the court, and still others have turned their eyes to the sky or the landscape surrounding.

In the center of the court there is a wide, raised dais, but it is empty, and nothing rests upon it. Around it, however, are two massive forms, wreathed and draped in dull grey robes. One is hunched as if with age, while the other stands tall and thin with shoulders squared; the way the robes drape over the bodies beneath seems to imply that they are humanoid, if only vaguely so. But both of them lack heads, and there is instead a wide orbit of stone faces, loosely encircling the spot that one would’ve expected a head to be.

“The Faceless Ones answer the call, Watchers.” Katt and Krå speak to the headless entities in unison, their voices blurring together. “We greet thee, September and December.”

The reply from the Watchers is not auditory, nor is it heard in the mind; it is something beyond even that. There are no words to it; instead, reality itself shifts and changes, though in ways not readily apparent to the eye. But the mind most certainly notices, for the very fabric of what one perceives is changed; both Katt and Krå find themselves aware of the Watchers’ awareness of their existence. That aspect of their shared reality is, for a brief moment, emphasized to the forefront of their perception, before slowly fading into the background once more.

Shortly after, both of them feel the impending sense that they will draw near unto the dais, where the Watchers are. Both of them step forward to fulfill that reality, though Krå hesitates, and is slower to do so. Once they have arrived, September moves, and from within the dull robe, a long skeletal hand with spindly fingers and taught, grey skin motions to the pictures on the dais. The etched images on the stone start to move, flowing around in a circle, telling a story through a wheel of silent carvings.

“This is the assimilation of Mokasha.” Katt states, watching the images. “Up to the present, and beyond. The planet cannot be redeemed.”

“One does not need prophecy to know that.” Krå says, slipping her hands into her pockets. “Mokasha is the stone cast into the pool. The events that transpire thereafter are the ripples.”

“Indeed. The effects will spread far and wide across the galaxy. Unto themselves, they are nothing major, but they will set other events in motion.” Katt says, watching as the scale of the images slowly starts to zoom out from Mokasha as the wheel turns, the carved lines twisting and undulating to form new images as the old ones come apart. “And from this seed, there are paths to genocide, twice over.”

“And we… are to do nothing to prevent it?” The corvids which form Krå’s mantle turn their beady red eyes towards the two Watchers as she senses the shift in reality which emphasizes what they are to do. “You would have us stand by and let genocide come to pass?”

“This is the will of the Witchling.” Katt murmurs, the eyes of his felids still fixed upon the images whirling round the dais. “These are only potential paths, Krå. They are possibilities, not certainties.”

“Such are the platitudes of a troubled conscience seeking to soothe itself.” Krå retorts sharply. “These possibilities would not be featured so prominently if they were not statistically probable. I will make my point in advance: you intend to tell me that not even hypernaturals can know the future with certainty, to which I will reply that even mortals can make predictions about statistical probabilities. Not even the gods can foretell what may come with certainty, but they can make fairly accurate estimations about the most probable paths between the present and the near future, just the same as I have estimated the very real possibility of the exchange we might’ve had, had I not dictated it to you just now to prove a point.”

Being as his head is wreathed in cats, Katt cannot glare as such; but there is something in the gaze of his mantle’s eyes that seems to approximate the expression. “And all this in service of your protest against our orders?” he asks, carrying the conversation back to its original point.

“That I do not agree that we should stand by as genocide comes to pass? Yes.” she affirms. “You will tell me that we would not be acting to either prevent it or encourage it, and that therefore we would not be responsible, to which I will reply that standing by and letting it come to pass is complicity through inaction and foreknowledge. And you will then state that it is not our place to prevent or enable it, as it shall come to pass through mortal actions, and even the Order is bound by the Rules. To which I will say nothing, because I know that you are right, but I still do not agree with letting genocide come to pass.”

“Indeed.” Katt says tonelessly. “I will say, however, that though I do appreciate your gift for clairvoyance, I much prefer to actually have the conversation, instead of merely being told what I will say and how the conversation will end.”

“That is your own fault, for being predictable.”

“It is not a flaw when predictability is a product of dedication to the Duty.” Katt says, his attention returning to the images swirling around the dais. “The fox, and the wandering witchling from Falcon’s Crossing, will be involved. If the mandate regarding the wandering witchling is still relevant, then his survival must be ensured.”

“Your task becomes clear, then.” Krå says, watching the images on the dais as they cycle back around to the same set that they began with. “You spoke your burden into existence, and now you are saddled with it. I do not envy you.”

At that, the hunched Watcher moves, a saggy, grey hand sliding from the folds of its robe to lift a crooked finger towards Krå. Reality shifts again, to emphasize December’s intent, and Krå stiffens and straightens up a little.

“I am to be saddled with this burden as well?” she demands. “Is a single angel not equal to the task?”

“It is not a matter of efficient personnel distribution.” Katt states quietly. “They no longer trust you to go about unsupervised. You have been corrupted by emotion, and so they intend to pair you with me, in the hopes that I will provide a corrective example for you to work towards.”

“I aspire to many things; being like you is not one of them.” Krå replies tersely. “I suppose I do not have a choice in this, but I will accept the task. If, as you have told me, the wandering witchling is a magnet for trouble, then I may find myself entertained.”

“The purpose is not entertainment. It is to bring to pass the will of the Witchling.” Katt replies. “Do not hold it lightly. The boy from Falcon’s Crossing must live; the Witchling herself decreed it and set me to the task. Now it is your task also.”

“And here I thought that my tenure as an angel would be something more than glorified babysitting.” is Krå’s sardonic reply, the crows of her mantle turning their crimson gazes to the Watchers. “So we are to do nothing about Mokasha, and what may follow from its fall, unless it is to ensure the continuance of the wandering witchling. You could’ve just sent one of the Daughters to tell us, instead of summoning us as if it were to some grand purpose.”

September’s spindly hand rises from the robes once more, its gaunt fingers taking hold of the edge of its robe and slowly tearing a long strip from it. Once it has snapped free, it is torn in two equal halves, and released. Both strips of grey silk flow through the air, moving like snakes as they coil around Krå and Katt’s wrists and knot themselves into simple bracelets, producing a brief sensation of burning, and eliciting surprised gasps from both angels. Though separate, the two bracelets are linked together, like a soft pair of handcuffs.

“Of course. We had to be here in person so you could bind us together.” Krå mutters as her crows start to settle.

“I had not realized they intended to be so literal about our pairing…” Katt remarks, rubbing his wrist.

“Perhaps now you will reconsider your blind obedience to the Order.” Krå says, hooking her finger in the bracelet and trying to tug it off. She quickly abandons the attempt, wincing at the tight, burning sensation that it produces around her wrist.

“There is a difference between blind obedience and acting in service of a grander design.” Katt replies. “My service is not mindless. We all have a part to play, and you ought to try a bit harder to play yours.”

“I will tell you, yet again, that I already know my place. And it is not what you may think it is.”

“This bickering is fruitless.” Katt mutters, the undulating mass of cats turning their eyes to the Watchers. “Is there more you would have us do, Watchers?”

Once again, reality shifts ever so slightly to emphasize the things which are of concern to the Watchers, brought to the forefront of Katt and Krå’s minds. The latter wrinkles her nose when she realizes what they are being asked to do. “Oh, an assessment of Aurescuran tax structure. Simply thrilling.”

“Do not mock it. We are being asked to undertake a review that may result in a paradigmatic shift for the entirety of Aurescuran society.” Katt replies. “Taxes are a critical component of engineering a more just and equitable society in a capitalist framework. The recommendations that we provide to the Watchers will become the basis of how Aurescurans perceive and understand taxation for at least a generation to come, if not longer. Many would be honored by a chance to influence Aurescuran society on such a fundamental level.”

“There are far more interesting paradigms to influence.” Krå complains. “Why can we not conduct an assessment of matters of social import? Like interspecies relationships, or the extent to which the Church of Aurescura influences the Aurescuran government? We could be examining those, instead of examining tax structure. I will surely perish of boredom.”

“The separation between religion and the state has already been assessed by Føflekk and Veps.” Katt answers. “And a paradigmatic assessment of interspecies relationships is not due for another decade, if not more—” He draws up short as both of them sense another shift in reality, a ripple that emanates from both Watchers as their will changes the fabric of existence itself. “Now see what you have done. We have been tasked with the assessment of Aurescuran tax structure and cultural perceptions of interspecies relationships within Aurescuran society. You have spoken your burden into existence.”

“I am aware.” Krå mutters, her crows turning their eyes upon the Watchers. “The irony is not lost on me. Watchers, is there anything further you require from us before we take our leave?”

The reply, such as it is, involves little more than a gesture from December, who slowly motions a grey, sagging hand to the hall that they originally arrived through. There are no shifts of reality required to communicate the intent, as it is clear enough already: the two angels are dismissed to pursue the tasks they have been given. With that permission given, they both turn and start back the way they came, shortly departing the Court. Both remain silent until they are well into the shadowed hall, their dress shoes echoing against the cold floor. 

“It still galls me that we are to do nothing about the fall of Mokasha.” Krå eventually states.

“It is not our place. We are not mortal.” Katt replies. “It lies upon mortal creatures to be responsible for their galaxy. And the Collective are not entirely without standing in their claim to be alleviating the suffering of Mokasha’s poor, of which there were many.”

“You know, as well as I do, that relieving Mokasha’s lower class is merely convenient collateral of the tactical benefit of assimilating a border world.” Krå counters. “You ought not defend intents which are not sincerely held.”

“The Collective is capable of holding many truths simultaneously. You know this.” Katt responds patiently. “Just because their actions yield multiple benefits does not mean their convictions are not sincerely held. We are not so different sometimes.”

“I agree, though in not in the manner you intend.” Krå agrees. “Like the Collective, sometimes even the Order will mask their intents with convenient truths. You claim it is not our place to intervene in the fall of Mokasha, saying it is the responsibility of mortal creatures to decide their own fates. Yet tell me what would happen if the Collective tried to assimilate an Aurescuran world.”

One of the cats in Katt’s mantle turns its yellow eyes upon Krå. But Katt does not answer, and Krå can sense the discomfort that emanates from him — a product of a mind that has suddenly become aware of an instance of cognitive dissonance.

“You know what would happen.” Krå continues, their footsteps echoing in the aphotic hall. “The Rules would be cast aside. It would not matter that it was a mortal affair. Every one of us would be called to the defense of our people. From the Faceless Ones, to the Watchers, to the Daughters, to the Old Ones, and the Exiles, every member of the Order would be mobilized to the defense of Aurescura’s children. Maugrimm herself would rouse from her ancient throne and unmake the invaders before she would allow a single Aurescuran to be assimilated. We know this because it happened once before.” She pauses to let that sink in before she goes on. “Yet when it is someone else’s planet, we stay our hand and claim that we can do nothing because mortal creatures must resolve their own troubles, as per the Rules which govern the affairs of immortals.”

“Where does it then end?” Katt asks softly. “If we intervene, where do we then draw the line? Who are we to draw the line after violating it? And even if we draw the line, who is to say that others will respect it?”

“You say that as if hypernaturals have not broken the Rules time and again.”

“And they are punished for it.”

“Then perhaps that is the price that must be paid to do the right thing.”

“Do not reduce it to a simple dichotomy of right and wrong.” Katt says as they start to near the yawning threshold that leads to the stairs. “The Rules exist for a reason, and there is a complexity to such macrocosmic actions that must be recognized. What may be the right thing in the moment may also be the wrong thing in the long arc of time, and vice versa. It may seem cruel to merely stand by and let Mokasha fall, but it is what the Rules demand for mortal affairs, and Rules exist for a reason.”

They both come to a halt as they exit the yawning threshold of the Court, both gazing out across the ruined expanse of the Old City. That endless dream, the infinite iterations of a destroyed world, the amalgamated memories of a people that died a thousand times ten thousand times. Ever grey, and muted in the silence of souls wearily waiting a long-promised coda.

“You would live by those Rules, Katt. And I fear that you will one day be undone by them.” Krå says, her corvid mantle studying the unending expanse.

“You think I would run afoul of the Rules one day, despite my dedication to them.” he surmises, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“I know you will one day run afoul of them.” she replies. “The Rules do not care for your loyalty. They do not care for your dedication. Rules are made to punish transgressions, not to reward obedience — a history of good conduct means nothing, for the moment you transgress the Rules, you are punished just the same as any other which has committed the same transgress.”

“That is the equity of the law.” Katt replies. “Is not justice blind?”

“It is.” Krå agrees softly. “But I would much prefer mercy’s tender gaze. Not for my sake alone, but for yours as well.”

Katt is quiet as he mulls that. After a moment, his felid mantle turns its many eyes towards the ruins roundabout, and the endless grey above. “We leave this unresolved, then. A discussion to pursue at another time?”

“The topic is complicated. You are…” Krå pauses for a moment, as if searching for the right word. “…cute to think that we might reach resolution upon it.”

“Cute?” Katt scoffs. “I fail to see how such an adjective accurately describes an attempt to reach an accord on a contentious subject which has considerable relevance to our continuing responsibilities and their attached boundaries.”

Krå smiles. “And your failure to understand why I perceive it as cute is, in itself, something else I would also call cute.”

“To think that I must suffer these inane whimsies for the foreseeable future.” Katt mutters, fidgeting with the knotted silk around his wrist and tucking it into the buttoned cuff of his sleeve, where it is hidden from view. “I can only imagine that the Watchers wish to train my patience to greater heights by taxing it to the limits of its present endurance.”

“Come now, do not be petty. Though you are loth to admit it, I know you enjoy my presence.”

“Enjoy is a strong word, and a potential mischaracterization of how I view your companionship.”

“Deny it all you want. I know your heart. Now, shall we check in on this witchling whose survival we have been tasked with?”

“We ought. And no mischief. He is fragile in both body and mind right now.”

“Me? Mischief? I would never!”

“Your lies leave much to be desired. Come, let us go. The Duty is calling.”