The End of All Things by Tyelca

Chapter 1

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The silence was the first thing that he noticed. It was never silent; large fires roared day and night, shouts echoed down the hallways and the incessant chatter, brawling, screaming and cursing never stopped. But it had stopped now. A short while he wondered whether his ears were chopped off, but the lack of pain told him it was not so. The lack of pain was also unusual; skin took a notoriously long time to heal if it was cracked open again and again, until scar upon scar had eliminated any plasticity that was left. But now he did not feel it, and it worried him as much as it offered relief.

Where was he? What had happened to him?

He still heard nothing, and he concluded he was alone. Well, he could deal with that, he decided, and opened his eyes. He was in a dark room, but that was all he could say regarding familiarity. The ceiling was high and arched and there was a thin window just under the roof. A single ray of sunlight entered, and he closed his eyes against the brightness. He sat upright, using his hands to push him up, and felt that the grating leather he wore as well as the heavy metal armor were both gone. Instead he was clothed in a soft brown garment.

“Welcome,” a measured voice said. He spun around, alarmed by the sudden appearance when he thought he was alone. In a doorway he hadn’t seen before was a tall figure, clothed in flowing black robes that descended to the ground. “Who are you?” he asked suspiciously. His sword was gone, as well as the knife that he always wore hidden in his boot. He was defenseless, and this creature radiated power. It triggered memories in him, memories he knew he had suppressed a long time ago. There was a gap in his knowledge and he was quite happy to leave it there. He mentally debated turning his back on the figure, but his sense of self-preservation won out. He did back away, though.

“I am Námo,” the figure said, “Lord of these Halls. You are welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” he spat out. He would have added some choice swearwords, but it seemed unwise to agitate this creature unnecessarily. Námo did not react, opting instead to study him, and it made him feel uncomfortable. Just as he was about to tell Námo off, the robes swished around and Námo strode away.

He was glad Námo was gone, but the visit had loosened something in him. He was certain he had never met Námo in his life, but the figure had been familiar. Or rather, the aura Námo exuded had been familiar. Dark shapes flashed before his mind’s eye, illuminated with the uneven flicker of hungry flames.

He shook the images away, uncomfortable in their wake. He needed something to focus on, something to occupy his mind. The doorway through which Námo had disappeared was still there, and he decided leave the bare room. The hall he entered was not different from where he just came from; high arches with small windows and closed doors stretched out before him. He wanted to check the other rooms, in search for his missing weaponry, but something told him not to disturb them. So he moved forward, trying to recall last night to find out where he was and what had happened. Meat was rotating above the cooking fire and there was grog to drink. He remembered throwing back mug after mug, and after a while his memory faded out. Not that that was uncommon; there was a serious betting pool going on concerning volumes of consumed alcohol versus experience. He’d never earned more than he’d lost.

But nothing had happened that was unusual, nothing to warrant these circumstances. Whatever these circumstances were. Once again he saw a figure outlined in black, radiating the same kind of power as Námo but more intense, much more intense. The Big Boss, he recognized from the few times the Big Boss had deigned to address his soldiers directly. But he had never been in close proximity to the Big Boss; he’d never even so much as set a foot in the Captain’s office.

The hall continued on and on, and it occurred to him that with the exception of Námo he hadn’t seen a single living soul yet. “It is indeed quiet in here,” Námo said as he suddenly moved next to him. “Not many have found their way to these Halls yet. But they will,” he said with a tragic note in his voice. “Where did you come from?” he questioned. Námo glanced sideways to look at him. “The question is not where I came from,” he replied slowly. “But rather: where did you once come from?” Námo then again performed his disappearance act and left him alone to ponder the question, inevitably bringing back the flashes of memory he did not want but which Námo for some reason triggered.

He saw dungeons, similar to those of the Iron Fortress but not the same. He recognized them as torture chambers, where he had spent a considerable amount of time as assistant to the master of the dungeon. The rack, the whip, and more tools he identified easily, but there were a few that he’d never seen before. He had liked his work in the dungeons; most often it was boring, their only victims other Orcs who were caught doing something they shouldn’t have. But once in a while the troops brought in one of the Tall Ones, and those were always fun. They got to go all-out with them, as it was much harder to break them, but that was part of the game. Keep them whole as long as possible, watch as the tiny cracks slowly spread and sit back when the thing collapsed under itself. It was beautiful.

The arrival of a Tall One was always a reason to celebrate, but most did not experience the intense joy he did. For them it was just entertainment, destroying an enemy bit by bit and piece by piece; they saved their spirit and their fight for after the end of the shift. He did not; there was nothing more satisfactory than watching a beautiful face get mauled, like a broken glass that could never be rebuilt in quite the same way again. It always lost some if its shine, of its luster, and sometimes the pieces did not fit together and created a ragged edge. He hated them, the Tall Ones with their bright faces. Hated them with a passion. Never did he realize how easily he could look them in the eye, or how broken his own visage was.

Lost in these thoughts, he finally came to the end of the hallway. An enormous decorated arch opened up onto a square of some sort. He couldn’t see the other side, but he did see that countless other hallways emerged on this central place.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Námo questioned. He looked around. Everywhere was the same smooth brown rock, and the floor was made of the same substance. “No,” he responded rudely, but offered no explanation. Námo did not seem to mind, though, and the non-hostile predisposition made him uncertain, for he knew not what to expect from this creature.

“Follow me,” Námo said, and he obeyed, for what else could he do? He still longed for his trusted sword, but as it was not available he had to settle for following Námo’s orders. They walked onto the square and the space around them seemed to widen even more; when he looked over his shoulder, the hall from which he’d emerged was nothing more than a speck in the distance. “Where are we going?” he demanded, and at once Námo stopped moving. “Ah,” he said, “that is a very good question. Tell me; where do you want to go?”

“Back,” he responded. Námo raised a single thin eyebrow. “Back where?”

He wanted to say ‘home’, describe the fires that always blazed, the fights, the noises, the curses, but something stopped him. Námo waited patiently. Once again he saw the dungeon before his eyes, with the Big Boss waiting patiently until the screams died down. His face was beautiful in a terrifying way, and he did not want to break it or put it back together. When the silence descended again he saw the Big Boss move around, and in his shadow he suddenly saw the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant said something to the Big Boss, and both laughed amiably. The Lieutenant walked forward toward the project they were together working on, and he turned with them. A Tall One lay writhing on the working table, all limbs still attached and all cuts were superficial. A curtain of black hair hung over the edge of the table and with a soft caress of his finger the Lieutenant set it on fire. The Tall One screamed again, and kept emitting horrible noises as the scent of burning flesh entered his nostrils. He had often smelled it, but this time it made him uneasy in the pit of his stomach, and he used a piece of cloth he ripped off his brown garment to protect his nose. The Lieutenant took a deep whiff and also the Big Boss seemed to savor the smell. A comment by the Big Boss and the Lieutenant moved away to put something down in a book that lay open on a standard. Slowly he followed the Lieutenant and neared the book, not wanting to see what was on those pages but needing to know nonetheless.

He opened his eyes and Námo was still standing there, waiting for him to answer. The empty openness of the square suddenly closed in on him and he sank to his knees. Námo knelt too and put a cool hand on his cheek. “Do you remember, child?” he asked, and for the first time his voice was soft and gentle.