Side Story: Uunrahzil’s Memories

Side Story: Uunrahzil’s Memories

Old Uunrahzil liked going through their memories. Times had been beautiful back in the day. Back when their memory was not yet patchy, back when they wouldn’t grow wahc so often. Now, they were dreaming, but there was none to dream with, and they indulge their myriad self, diving into the past.

There had been so very many of their people. A conclave of weavers, with schools full of students, and cities woven from dreams. Fields which grew food aplenty, and a whole community to share ideas as much as they liked.

Sometimes, they still lived in those memories. When they had helped weave bricks upon bricks, made seeds appear, and created water for their fields. When they taught <Breath> to the nervous ones, and <Water> to the hotheaded. A smile wormed its way onto their aged non-face.

It sparked another memory, one of them when they were still known. Still eyeun. Existed, every night, and talked and chatted. Before the fracture and the splits.

A memory of a calm day, in the halls of their school. They had not been its principal, the administrative work was not their pattern to weave. Their passion had always lied in teaching. In the beauty of weaving, of dreaming, of imagination and ihn’ar. It was a particular memory, of a late evening, when their triple sun had set upon fields of gold

Stars dotted the dreamt sky, each one the memory of a fallen weaver. Their method of burial, sometimes performed by oneself. Old ones would weave themselves into a star, and forever shed light upon the darkest nights.

The triple suns were the results of the first weavers, their radiance so bright it eclipsed all others when the day came. Eventually, perhaps, they’d join them up there, but not quite yet.

That day, they had taught long, yet were still not growing wahc. It was pleasant, a long stay in the school, as rare as they were allowed it, would give them the time to do grading and prepare things for their passionate students.

Or so they’d thought, until an apprentice of theirs burst into their office. The place had seen better days, had been more orderly before, but that was fine. Almost anything in it had been woven by old Uunrahzil themselves, back when they were still young and lacked their many titles.

'Mine tri’ht!' the student called in their thoughts, 'I must request your help!'

'Oh?' old Dreamweaver asked slowly, their form shifting to face the door. Some of the weavers would take more care to look aesthetic, coating themselves in cloth or fabric, crafted from their own ideas, sometimes in woven flesh and face, too. It was a way of expression, one old Dreamweaver pursued very little.

Their form was still made from shifting veins of mana, crystalline blue and stony grey arranged in something that, by a human, would be considered monstrous. To their students it was but normal, and once the darkness that was a simulacrum of their eyes faced their tri’ht, the young one continued.

'I have made a grave mistake, mine tri’ht! I have conjured a nightmare!' they cried.

Old Dreamweaver paused at that, before shifting towards the exit. 'Show me, young one,' they said bluntly, already attempting to trace down the accident.

Their steps, if one could call it that, took them through hallways of shimmering stone, corridors of glass and shifting crystals. The school was a castle of dreams, dreamt up by many weavers. They usually enjoyed the myriad scenery, but they spared it no glance this once.

A nightmare appeared rarely, and when it did, it would not disappear without the attention of many, or the attention of a powerful one. Perhaps, today, their attention would serve that role. It would have to.

Soon, their student had led them to a private chamber, which used to be sealed off. Now, the door had been entirely torn off its hinges, and black miasma hung in the air, dissolving the very weave they had crafted this place from. Dreamweaver felt anger rising within them for a moment, but they understood it and quelled it.

Luckily, the miasma left a trace for them to follow. The stones were erased sometimes, but it mattered none to Uunrahzil. The road appeared where they stepped, stone, glass, and whatever else came to mind serving to support their frame.

Sometimes, the path would twist and turn, the nightmare running across the ceiling and walls, but old Dreamweaver followed. This school was theirs, and as they leaned into <Determination>, they gained speed. Soon, they were blazing down the hallways as little less than a blur, fully engrossed in the task.

And then they saw it.

The monster was an amalgam of discarded ideas and wasted potential, dreamt up by a mistake that caused a tear in the place and let in that which should not be. It had the stench of broken promises, and forgotten love. The smell of dying dreams.

Uunrahzil stepped in front of it. The creature was a monster, by all means. They had altogether too many things wrong with them, their form twisted and malignant, eyes full of red, blazing hate directed at them, and their entire being constructed from loss. Yet, somehow, Dreamweaver felt a twinge in their mind. A subtle pull of familiarity.

Slowly, they discarded <Determination>. Didn’t forget, but wear another mantle. They sunk into ihn’ar. The creature was huddled in a corner, dissolving away the academy walls, gazing at old Dreamweaver with fear and hate and the grim determination to keep existing no matter what.

But it did not attack, not yet. Dreamweaver looked long, and deep, and hard. They pushed past the first veil of gold, then broke the second and third. They pierced through the darkness of sadness and the spirit of hate and all of it as well to gaze at the truth of the creature.

And they saw <Loss>.

It was an old friend they already understood, but there was so much of it in just one place it nigh broke their heart. The shock from the intensity of it all made their form waver, nearly having them grow wahc, but they chained themselves down. Looked at the creature, and truly saw it.

This one was a nightmare, yes, but it was not a nightmare of destruction. The loss, here, was sad, not malignant. It was on the receiving end of it all, the very idea of being hurt.

They gazed at it for a long moment, at the darkness and its malignancy, taking their time to understand its feelings, until they saw the all familiar pop-up.

[The individual has acquired the ability <Loss (low)> through a specific action!]

Sympathy echoed from their heart, and rather than curiosity and patience, their gaze filled with pity. 'You poor thing,' they muttered, a thought as quiet as a breeze, and slowly lowered themselves to the ground.

The nightmare’s eyes looked not half as hard anymore, the hatred in them replaced with a tentative degree of understanding. For a little while the two sat there, silently. Dreamweaver’s student had not been able to follow them, lost in the twisted, dissolving path there, so there was no one else to watch.

A moment shared was twice as long, and so they sat for a while. A very, very long while. Enough time for both of them to be enveloped in the miasma, yet it slid off Uunrahzil without any harm. They understood it now, and thus it could not harm them.

Perhaps, 'it' was no longer even appropriate. If Uunrahzil could understand something, something such as <Loss>, didn’t it deserve another name?

'What would you like to be called, young one?' they asked, their voice resounding through the darkness.

<Loss> looked at them for a long while, their eyes flickering with a mix of panic and surprise. It seemed the young one had not encountered <Patience> before. It brought a light smile to Dreamweaver’s face. They waited for an answer for a long time, but did not ask again. Simply waited, and contained the darkness to spare the school.

The experience had been very strange. Sitting in the black box was almost like being wahc, not eyeun. Like the times they weren’t remembered. Yet it was different, there was someone to share the experience with. That thought, too, made them smile a little.

Eventually, after much more <Patience>, <Loss> responded. Their voice was quiet and so, so very sad. 'Cailleiya,' they said.

Old Dreamweaver gave their best impression of a nod. 'Art thee old or young?'

Indeterminate Cailleiya tilted their head at that. They thought for a moment, then radiated tentative agreement. 'Young,' they replied.

Once again, old Dreamweaver signalled them understanding, mixed with patience. They waited some more in silence,this time giving the other a chance to speak. When Cailleiya voiced themselves, their thoughts were lighter, less filled with worry.

‘Where is this?’ they asked. It seemed as though what served as their eyes dotted around as well, though Dreamweaver was unsure whether they could pierce the darkness or not.

‘You find yourself in our academy, a school of weaving. One of mine tri’ht, mine students, has created a refyn, a “rift” in our dream, through inexplicable carelessness. One through which you made it here.’

Cailleiya paused for a few moments, then wrote light understanding for old Dreamweaver to read. They did so, and waited for any further questions, as the being of <Loss> gathered themselves. Words seemed to not come easy to them, their thoughts muddled and slow. Dreamweaver waited.

‘What… is it made from?’ Cailleiya eventually asked, and Dreamweaver answered as they always did.

‘Dreams, child. Woven from the imaginations of students, teachers, farmers, builders, and anyone in between. We are weavers,’ the thought rang out with power in the small chamber, ’this is how we eyeun.’

Once again, the child of <Loss> remained silent, thinking. Dreamweaver simply looked at them and listened, feeling their understanding grow alongside their sympathy.

They knew the language of the young one now, understood how they spoke, understood their pattern of thoughts. It would have come with more difficulty, usually, but Dreamweaver had known some loss before. Nothing this grand, yet the patterns were familiar, and they were well versed in understanding.

During the long pauses in conversation, Dreamweaver was not idle. They were learning more, holding the miasma at bay, protecting the school, gaining understanding on young Cailleiya, and mulling over their own thoughts. Eventually, the next question came.

‘What are you?’

‘I am many things, many titles earned. Perhaps today I am to earn a new one, yet. To you, for now, I will be old Dreamweaver,’ they explained. ‘I am simply me.’

The game continued like that for a little while. Uunrahzil smiled at the many questions they remember Cailleiya asking. They’d taken much time, and avoided growing wahc to keep conversing. Teaching the young one to fend for themselves, to reign in their <Loss>.

It was necessary to keep the school from being devoured, and it earned them another name. Juryndar, perhaps best translated as Integrator. Awarded for making the first nightmare into a weaver, and having them contain their own destruction.

Paradigms shifted in their school afterwards. Dreamweaver was the first one to enter the bond of tri’ht with a once-nightmare. The days passed, one after another, as things changed. New faces, new features, and the meaning of refyn changed. No longer a rift of destruction, but a gateway for those who had nowhere else to go.

Eventually, the once-nightmares gained a name. Celen. That was what they were called, in general, simply to have something to call them as. Conventions were shared. The weavers learned about the outside, about the deep darkness of the void, and it led them to deeper insight into <Nothingness>.

And the celen? They learnt coexistence. Company. Comfort. And trust.

To the weavers, trust given was trust earned. Dreamweaver extended a first hand. Trusted and watched, sought to understand rather than attack. They had seen a familiar fear, a familiar sense of loss that they had felt when their tri’ht died.

Now, that familiarity had earned them more tri’ht instead. A bigger family. Cailleiya, the first child of <Loss>, became their closest student over time. They worked in tandem, and he watched them earn many more titles. Cailleiya was no longer simply Child of Loss. They were Joruel, Banishment of the Dark. Leshunal, the First Redeemed. Yryel, Gift to those who Aren’t.

Dreamweaver watched it all with pride. They themselves gave more trust. There was a single name the two shared for each other. To <Loss>, they were Lachtryone, the one who Gives Life, and to them, <Loss> was Eluvia, Rescued Family.

And the two of them truly had become family. Dreamweaver acted like a parent to someone who was lost, and taught. They enjoyed it. Times were good.

Until they were not.

Uunrahzil frowned. Their memories drifted, and they did not enjoy the direction it was going. The destruction of their realm was not something particularly pleasant to remember.

But it was their history nonetheless, and their memory would rarely be stopped by one of their fractured selves.

Some of their other pieces enjoyed wallowing in misery, after all. They frowned at themselves a little, but the memories came anyway, and they could only accept them with <Patience>.

It had been a day as any other, really. Well, any other in recent times. Things changed slowly in the dream realm, as it was made from the imaginations of many, and thus needed many to change. But it had been changing.

Discontent had been brewing. Not with old Dreamweaver, specifically, they didn’t have many enemies. But people were upset at the general situation of the place. Why, Dremaweaver did not know. Still couldn’t understand.

There were people who hated the celen. Hated that access to the academy was free. Hated that weaving was not limited to those noble ones who had come early, or spawned from the dreams of those who were rich.

Well, rich in ideas, and skill, that was. At any rate, they responded well to the voice of the oppressors. Heard what the hateful had to say, and spread it.

Over time, the realm grew corrupted. People were shunned when they should not have been, and discord grew. Until, at some point, they did not share their ideas anymore.

To old Dreamweaver, that was when death had started. When creativity is no longer shared, it marks the end of a weaver. Their thoughts were always meant for others, their very existence based on being remembered. They would grow wahc over time, recharge their magic in an existence of darkness.

Those times, they could not see, could not hear or feel, and spent it all alone with their thoughts. Extending such a horrid reality to their dreams, when they were free to eat, and talk, and move, and share was akin to torture for old Dreamweaver, yet others did it willingly.

But to truly end, was to cease their eyeun. And that day was the first loss of eyeun without a burial in many, many chapters. It had not been someone old Dreamweaver knew very well, but he had interacted with them. They were staff at the academy, a teacher of alchemy, and one day, Dreamweaver could not remember their name.

Uunrahzil had tried recalling it. But it was gone.

Everything in the dream was made from ideas. Without memory, all name signs were wiped blank, all written words vanished. Without eyeun, a person was truly gone, and all that they left was a deep hole.

Dreamweaver wept for the colleague they could no longer remember. They had shown so much patience with the hateful. So much tolerance, in letting them have their opinions, in sharing them, because it was what was meant to be done. And it had led to loss, decay, and the darkness of dreaming no more for one of their own.

Someone who could have been a star in the night sky had that honour taken from them.

Their heart contorted as the memory came, and <Sadness> stirred within their mind. But their other selves rejoiced in the tragedy, and the memories played further.

One after another, Dreamweaver remembered bright lights winking out. They began working against it, with all their power. Building shields, and weaving magic to preserve, but they failed where thousands of weavers had failed before. When eyeun truly disappeared, it would hardly ever come back.

There were records of those who came back from loss of eyeun, but they were few and far in between; usually linked to extraneous circumstances. When someone remembered them due to a deep connection, due to years spent together, and after many, many seasons of jogging their memories.

This time, there weren’t many seasons left. And bit by bit, slowly but ruthlessly, the dream they had so carefully woven was crumbling.

Now, they remembered precious few of the names of the others. Hardly any. The only tri’ht of theirs alive was Cailleiya. Well, perhaps alive was a strong word.

When the weavers slowly ceased, one by one, both the hateful and the kind, the dream fell apart. It shrank, at first. Holes patched up by the living, who maintained as much as they could. But eventually, their numbers dwindled. Conflict did not let up.

Hate begot hate; the kind hated the hateful, and the hateful hated them back. Ideas no longer shared caused more decay, and as more lights winked out, the dream stopped shrinking and started falling apart. The celen, many of them, fled then. They blamed themselves for it all, many of them already battling inner demons and simply succumbing to the pressure.

As Lachtryone, they watched their Eluvia flee. Their child, their family, gone because of others. It was the day their dream truly crumbled. The day they no longer wished to share with the world, the day they wished to simply withdraw into themselves, and perhaps the first day they willingly embraced growing wahc.

There, they remained for a long while. Alone, in the dark. The dream had already crumbled around them, there was nothing to go back to. So many had ceased, and the sky of stars was now disparate, strewn across the endless dark between ideas.

Their culture had wiped itself out. The last remnants of the celen hid away, and it was hard to find anyone without a proper anchor. The bitterness of the memory filled Uunrahzil, their body wracked with shivers. It hurt to remember. It was not enjoyable to remember, because there were so many gaps.

So many ideas that had been lost, so many weavers and people to never be found again. Their eyeun taken away, and their minds denied a proper goodbye. Forgotten. Forever.

To remember it without the memory was painful, and yet, they did so. They held onto it, the fleeting pieces of it, because it included some few people they knew. Dreamweaver still held onto their names. Onto their dear, dear Eluvia. The one they had told to flee themselves, sent off into the darkness in hopes of holding them in their heart.

Sometimes, when their eyeun flickered from overuse, from not growing wahc, from dreaming too long, from clinging too much, they asked themselves those questions. Did their little Eluvia, their child, still remember them too? Did their bond resonate with them?

For a fleeting few seconds, they allowed the thought, indulged the hope of being remembered, before their doubt flared.

Had they perhaps changed too much? They’d become a “we” to seek through the endless dark and find those sparks of lost radiance, to set anchors, to hopefully, maybe, teach again. They had found someone, another lost child, young Mercury who did not know who they wanted to be.

Watching the young one grow had been so wonderful. Finding their own ihn’ar, understanding things and piercing the first veil. Just now, they could feel their tri’ht was progressing again, blazingly fast, with more life experience than they should possibly have had.

Sometimes they wondered about young Mercury’s past, but trust given was trust earned. They had received so much trust from the young one, they would repay it in kind. After all, Uunrahzil was their first title, their first bit of teaching, and their most well known one. Perhaps, one day, they would tell young Mercury it meant One who is Patient.

It would not be that day yet, and it would not be that day soon.

At any rate, they were glad for the distraction. Their myriad selves felt distant once again, the other bits and pieces now going about their own business. Many of them simply dreamt, explored, or grew wahc, spending their time in solace. They had all developed somewhat differently, as was natural.

Perhaps their fragmented state should bother them more. Perhaps they should be seeking revenge on those who destroyed their woven dream, erased the memories of their friends, and cast their child, their little Eluvia, back into darkness. But they did not wish to pursue cruelty.

Dreamweaver had always been a weaver. One who Creates. One who Dreams. It was not in their nature, the nature of any of their myriad selves, to seek revenge. Many parts of them were angry, downright wrathful. But not a single one thought revenge to be more important than rebuilding.

And so, they set about it again, many of their myriad selves exploring the vast darkness, looking for who was lost, and trying to connect the millions of threads back to one whole. The piece who was remembering, who had been with Mercury, would be continuing to teach a new student, a tri’ht.

Things may never be the same again. They sometimes wished they could return to the past, or at least have their memories back, but they would not wager a bet on it. Regardless of the odds, and whether the past would be back, however, they wished to recreate a semblance of what they had.

A space of shared ideas. Of wonderful creation. One of company, and of welcoming, of learning and of love. One, where people could find out who they wished to be, and be accepted simply as themselves, loved for who they dreamt of being.

And whether they would succeed or not, whether they would find those who were lost and whether new weavers would wish to join their endeavour, that was in the hands of the future. It would not fail for lack of trying. They were <Patience>, they were old Uunrahzil, and they were Dreamweaver.

If it took them single-handedly weaving that paradise back into being, that is what they would do.