"The high tribunal" by /u/Lhyon

The High Tribunal


In his youth, Calev of Vasa of Silesse had been fascinated with his dreams. He kept ink
and parchment close to his bed, so he could record the snippets he still remembered when he
emerged from the deep fog of sleep. By the time he met Mielu, it was already a long-ingrained
habit, and one he did not change even as the content of his dreams themselves shifted. He could
still recall the day when she discovered his most recent records, hastily stowed under several
theological volumes. Her wry smile and the twinkle in her eye as she read them aloud, the hot
rush of blood to his face as she offered her own… commentary.
But that was an age apart. Since the early weeks of 760, he did not care much for dreams.
And so gradually they had begun to fade away from his mind, leaving in their place only a swirl
of winter starlight and a breath of cold pinewood air. On some nights, he would even feel the
crackling warmth of a hearth-fire and the choral voices of his family singing the verses of the
Thovela, so close, and yet so distant.
Tonight’s dream started with that same starry swirl, that night sky amidst the silent
woods of Vasa immortalized forever in his mind. The frigid wind whispered as it wound through
the trees he could not see, and a quiet stream burbled away, oblivious to the ice slowly
encroaching upon its flow.
And then a star fell from the sky. First one, then two, then ten, streaking down faster and
faster, until the entire firmament cascaded into nothingness like a shower of silver arrows. A rain
of shining tears. A wave of long hair, pale blue in the dim light of the setting sun.
The wind spoke through the trees, it screamed through the splintering wood that was
never there, it whispered through the barren aftermath. “Promise me, Calev. Promise me.”
And then the darkness broke with a red morning sun, and Mielu stood before him, body
broken, armor pierced by cruel barbed shafts. Her blood watered the snow, flowed out in great
rivers beneath his feet, growing a forest of small trees. Twenty, fifty, a hundred, in every
direction. Mielu, her face still glowing despite her shattered body, looked at him with her bright
purple eyes, now glazed with disappointment. “You promised me, Calev,” she whispered, and
the whisper grew and grew until it resounded through the forest.
And then Mielu’s body fell away, leaving behind a grim spear, protruding up through the
ground and into her skull. Blood fell from her neck, from her eyes, and she whispered again,
black ichor gurgling out of her mouth as she spoke those words which damned him. “You
promised me, Calev.” The words echoed, resounded, and then the trees of the forest fell away
until they were just stakes, each crowned with a head, a forest of the slain. As one they turned
towards him, and each one bore Mielu’s face, crying tears of blood from gory pits where the
crows had pecked out their eyes, her eyes. A thousand tongueless mouths opened as one, and a
thousand rasped whispers became a roar. “You promised me, Calev.”
And then the sun slipped beneath the mountains, and darkness fell on the world as the red
blood from the severed heads pooled in a great lake beneath Calev’s feet, swirling in a great
vortex, slowly fading into a black streaked with lines of flowing red. Slowly the blood began
rising, solidifying, taking form, until it became a throne. Harsh and grim is was, oozing blood
and gore from every surface, spiked and scaled like some terrible wyrm.
From on high, a gavel fell and broke the darkness, but the throne remained.
A stone floor now was at Calev’s feet, stone walls and a vaulted stone ceiling surrounded
him, the center room of a castle at the edge of a desert. In air, in every direction, floated a robed
and hooded figure, their every feature concealed in shadow. Their robes shone with light, each of
a different color, and then twelve hands raised themselves and Calev was flung back into the throne of blood that stood at the center of the circle. Twelve thunderous voices read twelve pieces of parchment together as one, and Calev knew every word they said before the last one left their lips.
Today’s experiments reassuring – temporal studies proceeding well. Spatial operations seem to be much easier than static operations – still have made no headway of the inability of the suspended personal state to handle the incoming flood of memories. Temporal control experiments on objects – even reactive objects – seems promising, but living beings may prove different. Experimental temporal beacon has obviously not yet failed, but we are still solidly within our historical record for time without a jump, so we still can draw no real conclusions on how well it may function. Still, progress is promising on a way that my condition may ultimately be controllable.
With every word, he tried to speak out, to defend himself, to say that he never meant to go against their will, but he could not. Every word slammed him back into the throne. Every word beat the breath from his lungs and tore the words from his lips. Every word was a fresh damnation for his sins. Pleading desperately, he reached out to one of the robed beings, the brightest one, shining golden and radiant, but it raised its hand and smote him back. He tried once more, this time turning to one with soft pine-green robes, but it simply turned its back to him. Calev fell back and the throne dissolved around him, fading into a pit of black blood and red gore. Slowly, he began to sink, the edges of the morass vanishing even as he grabbed him. As the grim pool began to envelop him, he reached out a final hand to the twelve robed figures which still surrounded him, closer than they had been. As one, they removed their radiant hoods, and the perfect face of Mielu looked down at Calev from twelve angles. “You promised me, Calev,” they boomed, and the scholar saw no more.
Calev awoke in darkness, his hands scrabbling for the dodecagonal necklace he always wore. Its metal was cool to the touch, the symbols engraved upon it a comfort to his fingers. With a shuddering breath, he whispered the word to activate the dim magic lights in his bedchamber. Still moving frantically, his eyes glanced at his desk across the room, and stopped short. Alone on the smooth wooden surface, an engraved silver ring rested atop a single familiar piece of parchment. The scholar twitched, murmured to himself, and then begun to cry softly, rocking himself back and forth across his bed.