A Man Out of Time

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The Nether Edge - Garden

Unspeakable pain courses through Eidos' Self, her Falseflesh melting away in the blue-hot fire of Awareness. A thousand flakes of skin shoot off like fireworks in the six directions, while uncountable fibers of muscle unravel off into the void. And soon every last piece of her physical being loses cohesion, spreading out into infinity. All sense of individuality, all agency is lost, devoured in the flames.

Yet, even this pain, intense and eternal as it may seem, soon recedes as form and definition are lost, disappearing along with all perception.

In the span of a thought, a timeless eon, Eidos regains awareness of Self and surroundings. The subtle sound of water. A rush of vibrant colors. A perfume befitting nature.

Standing atop a Farcaster seal, Eidos' Self is now within a forest clearing. Eyes see a glade carpeted in lush, emerald grasses, nearly knee-high, but with an uncanny uniformity. A flowing stream wends its way among the gently swaying trees—invisible to sight, but the ears surmise its existence. Earthy smells of soil, leaves, and flowers drift through the air, a musky sweetness the result.

But nature's design it is not, for it is all too perfect. Casting awareness skyward, eyes now see a radiant crystal showering the surroundings with unnatural light, too pure, too distilled. The trees they bathe have subtly repeating patterns, too regular to be chance.

Walking from the seal, looking all about, her Self takes in the details of the surroundings. Outside of this clearing, trees grow wildly. Diminutive saplings are dwarfed and choked by old greatwoods. Trees felled by age lie rotting on the forest floor, giving rise to mushrooms, vines and crawling life. As her Self peers into the deeper parts of the wood, carpets of moss and leaves vanish into the encroaching darkness of the forest canopy.

Attention now turns from the trees to the babbling stream meandering through them. The gentle flow empties into a deep pool over a small waterfall not too far off. Dragonflies hover above lilies floating heedlessly at the waterside, while toads croak their atonal chorus on the rocky shore. But soon, another sound enters her Self's awareness: the rhythmic snipping of shears…

In pursuit of the sound's source, her Self comes upon an elderly man tending to a cluster of bushes and shrubs. His tools bring forth unusual changes in the plants. Cutting a limb from one location, makes another grow elsewhere to replace it. Tying collections of twigs together results in fused branches, with flowers rapidly blossoming from their tips. Pruned branches are sometimes attached to other trunks or to the stems of neighboring growths. Otherwise, they fall to the ground where they rapidly wither, decay, and ultimately rejoin the soil.

Despite the man’s significant alterations to the scenery, none of the plants are left looking overtly artificial, nor as if they had been touched by the hand of man at all.

“How come this world is filled almost exclusively with old bastards?” Holy shit-biscuits and gravy! I can speak! “Wait… can I really speak?! Is this me?!” Yes, it is! Eidos is in a state of giddy shock.

“…Greetings, traveler.” The man continues with his work without turning to face Eidos. “I am Nargund.”

“Sorry! I’m just not used to being able to speak, and…” embarrassment beyond measure washes away the excitement her Self felt but moments ago.

His expression softens, every so slightly. “You’re not speaking, actually. You’re just thinking.”

“Thinking?” I thought this was thinking…

“Here, they are equivalent,” he offers. Making a final snip, he turns to face Eidos, “I must say, it has been quite some time since anybody used the Farcaster. But then again, perhaps it is about time.”

“Well, I hope I’m not disturbing you; didn’t mean to barge in on your… home?” Is this guy like some forest nymph or something? Oh dammit! He can hear my thoughts! “Shut up, thoughts!”

Whether to be polite or out of genuine apathy, the man ignores her exchange, saying, “Well, you're welcome to come and go through here, though do avoid disturbing my arrangements.”

“Oh, of course! I wouldn’t dream of it!” Eidos replies innocently. “I’m just happy to finally get to talk to someone.”

“You’re alone in your satisfaction, I’m afraid,” Nargund says with the cold indifference of a career misanthrope. “I’m rather content in my solitude. You may ask your questions and then leave, Eidos.”

Jerk. “No, wait! I mean… actually, yeah! That’s exactly what I mean!” she says, frustrations finally boiling over. “I finally get to speak…”

“Think,” he corrects.

“…think! Yes, I know! Think! I finally get to have my thoughts heard, and you’re the jackass I have to be heard by?! What is wrong with this place?!”

Nargund silently regards for several moments. His eyes reflect a bizarre mixture of vexation and curiosity. “Are those the questions you have for me?”

“What?”

He continues, “The answers, as I see them, are thus: first, yes, it appears that I am the first to hear you directly; and second, I ask is the place wrong are your expectations simply unfounded?”

“You’re an aggravating one, aren’t you?”

“Your aggravation seems to stem from your betrayed expectations.” He shrugs. “Perhaps it’s best if you re-examined why you expected anything other than what reality has shown itself to be, Eidos. Now, if have you no more questions, I’ll get back to my gardening.”

Eidos stops. Her Self begins to contemplate what her expectations are and why she should have them. I’m not sure. “I guess I have no reason to believe it should be anything other than what it is.” An epiphany. “I just wish it weren’t like this.”

Regret and sympathy speaking through him, Nargund muses, “At some point or another, we all wish for things that aren’t.”

Feeling the weight of expectation slide from her Self, Eidos inquires, “So, I can ask questions, then, right?”

“Indeed.”

“How many questions?”

“As many as pleases you, Eidos, but recall that a flower needs a precise volume of water to grow. Too little dries it; too much drowns it; both extremes kill it.”

With a nod of understanding, she continues, “Fine. First, why do you know my name?”

“I know the names of most all things. If it has been thought, I’ve likely heard it.”

“So you read thoughts?”

“I interpret thoughts.”

“What’s the difference?” she asks, irritated by the overly simplistic answers.

“When you see a word, do you know its meaning or just its name?”

“Both?” exasperation creeps into her voice.

“What then does ‘throniran’ mean?”

“…I don’t know. But I bet you just made it up right now, didn’t you?!”

With cool detachment, he counters, “Aren’t all words made up?”

“How am I supposed to learn anything from your vague answers?!” she snaps.

“Your learning is your own responsibility. Ask the right questions, and suddenly the answers seem obvious.”

Argh! Why is it so hard to answer a simple question!?

“It’s not. But as I doubt you’ll be able to ask a simple question of me at the moment, I suggest you return to the Farcaster.” He turns away from her, picking up his shears. “Clearly, more context is required for your truths to be fashioned.” He begins snipping.

Well, I’d love to stay, and keep you from boring the trees to death, but I have a village to save! Come on, body; let’s get out of here. Feet soon stamp through the forest back towards the river she traced to get here.

While walking back to the Farcaster, the scenery shifts. Leaves spontaneously exchange places, and entire branches disappear. Even groups of trees vanish to the left and reappear to the right. Any sense of familiarity has vanished in this ever-changing labyrinth of trees and shrubs. Yet, even in spite of these chaotic transformations, the right path is always evident—indeed, innate—to her Self, remaining fixed in this maelstrom of growth.

In short order, the Farcaster appears, waiting patiently in its lonely glade. It again calls, but unlike before, Eidos can now start to pick out individual thoughts. The Farcaster can think?

Stepping upon its silvery seal, her Self quiets the mind and listens.

“Archon status reckoned. Name the will of your travel,” a choir of a thousand voices seem to ask all at once.

Well, this is interesting... Send me to the Wellspring, Farcaster.

“Casting Archon essence and shape to Wellspring.”

The words end abruptly, as light envelops her Self, completely isolating her essence from all else. Here, she is not of physical make; here, nothing is.

Consciousness wanes, split into myriad fragments. On a stream of light, each piece now swiftly courses toward intent’s destination.