From cracks and darkness emerged the butterfly. It fluttered to the land of color, from where there were none; yet here, the colors present were never nearly as overwhelming as mere moments ago. A hallway of doors, each open, within each of them just a mirror, and nothing more. But within those mirrors, there was always something. Things that could have been, things that Kanrel would claim to be better than what there was now. They were lives, not quite options, not something that had genuinely happened in another existence. They were something more, yet seemingly less than the magnitude that life in itself has. They existed only as thoughts, as desires whispering, "What else could there be? Who else could I have been?"
Dreams. Fantasies. Desires. Lies…
In one, there was a Sharan, be it him or someone else, though it might as well not be him, for it was nothing more than a reflection of something that could not be. On the other hand, it might as well be him, for he had experienced life as one of the Sharan, although as part of a previous collection of forced-upon illusions. In that lie, he had the ability to experience life as one ought to. Is it not what he most wants?
In another, he sat, as himself, upon a throne of desires. Women and gold, riches that would be unimaginable to most. Is it not something that all of us, to some degree, wish for ourselves? If given the chance, wouldn't most accept such a future if it ever came their way?
In the next, yet another vision of himself. A loving, caring man who could share moments most fulfilling with family and friends. Within this reflection was not only him, but everyone who had ever touched him in some way. Not just his mother, not just Yviev, Uanna, and Yirn, but Y'Kraun and Gor, as well… The butterfly fluttered past even this possibility, another desire, one that was in truth what he now sought to have for himself. He wanted to stare at this vision for a moment longer, but the butterfly cared not for such desires; it only flew to the next…
He saw himself in a temple, looking away from the altar and the painting that hung above it. He had become an old man with hair as white as snow. His eyes were tired, filled with the culmination of a life lived in regret. An old man who had lost his faith. It was what he had now become, lest one could regain something as fickle and fragile as had been his faith.
A king, a slave, and just the darkness. Desire, joy, and repeated despair. Useless hope, foolish endeavors; moments of bliss, an illusion of freedom. Everything and all a man could have been and still claims that he could still become. But still past it all, fluttered the butterfly, as if from one flower to the next. It ignored all of this as if none of it mattered. They were, after all, just lies. Useless ruminations on something that could or could not exist. Something that might be, but nothing that would be certain, as there is no such thing as "certain." At times, even death seemed like a moment that would just pass you by, for it seemed so insignificant when compared to life itself. Somehow, death in its presumed eternity was a footnote to the grandeur of our meek existence. Even to a butterfly's perception of reality, if it even had one, or if it only cared to flutter from one flower to another…
Together, he and the butterfly, one and the other that might as well be one at the moment, reached the door at the end of the hallway. The final door remained open to them. Inside, it was a vast, white room that had no walls, that had no ceiling, and might as well not have had a floor either. The white was so absolute that one could not define which parts of it were physical, actually there, and which were just a different form of void, a different color of nothing…
The golden butterfly fluttered forth, leaving the door through which they entered long behind them; they flew and they flew, and the doorway became first just a sliver, then a spot, until it disappeared out of sight. Yet the butterfly did not stop; it only flew forth.
First, Kanrel could perceive all that was around him. The illusion of physical reality, although from within a creature less significant in its size than most. But thought at a time, sense itself became as if the white itself. A flat, open nothingness that felt the same as the darkness before, yet remained bright in how it manifested itself within his mind. There was no fog or shadow over him; there was just the light, even if it really wasn't the light. It was as if being awake, fully awake, but unable to comprehend anything at all. There were no thoughts to be had. No memories to be remembered. There was… peace.
He was a butterfly painted on the coarse surface of a white canvas, yet the painted insect was naught more than an outline, and so yellow in its coloring that one could not see or perceive its existence unless the rest of the canvas was submerged with an overwhelming color of black.
But if there is peace. Then there must be chaos, for one cannot exist without the other. And if one, somehow, for a moment or two, exists without the other's presence, then the other shall emerge and remind all else of its existence. The canvas was covered, submerged with a shade of black, through the existence of a spot of ink in clear water. It spread in all directions at once, blooming like ink in clear water, until the butterfly, hidden before, became visible. Its existence now gained significance, and through the chaos that emerged, so did thoughts and memories.
And in that ink, the butterfly fluttered to a figure that stood in the middle of it all; it showed itself, for the darkness had unveiled it, and the figure stared right at them. No. It stared right at Kanrel. Not the butterfly, just him. And Kanrel knew who that figure was. A god, a monster, a son who killed his own father… Ignar, someone who was like Kanrel, but not quite.
It reached its hand toward Kanrel; the butterfly flew toward it, sat on the figure's outstretched finger, and dissolved into its skin. For a moment, there was nothing to see. And when he could open his eyes again, around him, he now saw Café N'Sharan… just moments before hellfire would consume it and the people trapped within…
A voice aware of danger screamed within his head. Everything was wrong. Yet the café and its people weren't aware of such a thing. Something happening here was never a thought that crossed their minds.
Kanrel stood in the middle of the café, within and through the eyes of Ignar, he could see the Sharan that sat around tables, partaking in idleness, conversations that lingered, of different topics, mixed with rumors and talks of yesterday, and speculations of what there might be tomorrow. Be it about the arts, be it about finance, or the stock market. The air was filled with such conversations.
In the air, there was a powerful stench of lit cigars and cigarettes, of coffee and tea as servants brought such things to the tables with their trolleys. And they all wore a uniform of sorts, the servants wore neat vests and a well-practiced smile on their lips, and the customers wore a wide variety of statements. Dresses and suits, all competing with each other, all showcasing wealth and what each person thought to be art. This seemingly varied mixture of colors, styles, cuts, and shapes made it so that none of them truly stood out; this in itself was one movement of fashion, one unified statement with the same underlying thought behind them. "Aren't I so interesting? Look at me, please."
His thoughts were then interrupted, "We are similar. Are we not?" Kanrel could hear himself speak, not with his own voice, but with Ignar's voice. Not the same voice he heard at first. This version of Ignar's voice was far too alive. It hadn't yet reached a point where there was no emotion.
"We both have made uncomfortable decisions to protect something greater than ourselves. I have seen it. I have seen everything within you. And so I know that we might as well be the same. We are entwined with the same strand of thought that then connects us and forces us to see and look within, to observe our actions." Ignar spoke, then halted for a moment before continuing, "We both regret to the point of torment. We both have tried justifying our actions. For how else could we have the right to exist? But we do not." He scoffed, "Yet…"
Ignar gestured at the people within Café N'Sharan and asked, "Why is then the existence of people like this allowed?"
Why indeed? A question he had struggled with for a while now. It was as if one was meant to struggle with it; to wrestle with the injustice of the world. And you couldn't get rid of it unless you came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter. But how could one reach such a conclusion? Should he extinguish even this bit of idealism within and paint it as nothing more than a naive belief of someone who just hadn't grown out of it quite yet?
"By now, you know as well as I of some of the things that burn me from within… The things that I have done to have the regret that I carry even now… You've seen the justifications that I have made so that I could do these terrible acts…"
Swift execution, because of corruption, extortion, and the failure to abide by the vows that a member of the Office of Peace ought to follow.
Torture and slow execution, because of murder, rape, and the same failure to abide by the sacred vows of the Office of Peace…
But then… Purge. Why? Because they partook and indulged in the tragic death of truth…
"But no matter how much one moralizes and dwells in the questions of right and wrong, or good and evil, justice remains elusive in reality. We do not understand it, and for seemingly no good reason at all, we all have our conclusions on what is just and what is not. Even when it ought to be clear as day to us, we still ardently disagree on these things."
"And even when we have rules upon which there is a general agreement, laws, and so forth, so many seem to go against them. And when justice is sought, it is seldom truly just. And when reform is sought, it is refused."
"We remain stuck in our ways."
"So I did what I did. I didn't want to be among my brethren and just give up on N'Sharan."
Kanrel remembered the conversation he had with the Angel of Order and Chaos, and particularly, the last few sentences they had said: "We tried; we all tried." They had spoken, "And one by one, each of us gave up. Each of us chose to spend the little time there was to indulge in the things that we enjoyed, and was there anything wrong with that? If war is inevitable, and if that is what the equation has decided, then why deny it? Why not embrace the end that was designed for this city?"
"I didn't want to let it become more corrupt than it already was. I believed that we could salvage it somehow. But I was refused and disregarded, as the city we built pleaded for change. And instead of helping it, instead of healing it, we let it rot."
"And when I tried, it was already too late. And so my greatest regret is not the things that I did, but the things that I didn't."
Ignar released his magic, and power that felt infinite emerged. A fire that burned everyone and everything within Café N'Sharan. The flames were so bright and powerful that no other sound could exist… not even the screams of terror and pain.
The flames crackled. A chilling tension forced itself through him; he could feel shivers running through him, even when he could experience physical reality only through Ignar. An acrid scent covered the smell of coffee. A returning sensation that something was inherently wrong, but only he could sense it. The flames erupt, not from the floor, but from the very air itself. Descending like divine wrath. It hungers, it yearns to baptize everything with its touch. Covering all, burning everything, and all within the café. The flames, so bright and powerful that no other sound could exist nor pierce through it… not even the screams of terror and pain that must have existed…
Like a creature with infinite hunger, the flames scorched everything. A deep rumbling accompanied its arrival. Not just objects, but people, and through people, history—years of memories, of conversations, of whispered dreams shared over cups of tea. The seedlings of rumors died before they could ever bloom. The fire ate even that.
The heat blasted against Ignar and through him, Kanrel could feel it. How his mouth went dry, how sweat formed yet evaporated instantly from his skin. Through his eyes, Kanrel witnessed how history repeated itself, how another failure, another massacre, was allowed to exist. How regret filled the demon was who had caused even this, and so it mirrored itself unto him. Disgusting, it was disgusting. How could a moral being do something like this? Yet… Of course, one could… Even he could.
Cruelty. We hate it, yet we adore it. We love the cruelty that is used in ways that we deem to be just. Was this not just? At least somehow, in some way… How else will there be change?
The flames, the rumbling hellfire burned away. In one moment, it was there, overwhelming, bright, and powerful in its dark purpose. And now, it was gone. In mere seconds, it had formed itself, in mere seconds it had burned everything, and after its departure, after its hunger had been quenched momentarily, the ruination that revealed itself was total. Absolute annihilation.
The was just black ash that covered everything. There were no bodies, nor other objects to remind us that it had been a café filled with customers… Instead, it was just an empty room, filled with a harrowing soon-to-be memory. It had become so dense in its silence.
"I have killed all these people," Ignar whispered, though the weight of his words felt heavier than the silence that smothered them. His voice cracked, fractured.
He trembled as he let his gaze mix with the ashes of his actions.
"But just how many more did I kill by not doing anything earlier?"
Kanrel could not form a reply. Through Ignar's eyes, he only stared at what remained—not ruins, not just the ashes, but absence itself. The café, the people, the memories they carried—wiped clean as if they had never been.
Ignar let out a deep sigh, "And even this isn't enough. It wasn't enough. I was far too late, weren't I?"
The black surfaces of the café became more intense.
"And to truly understand, one has to go deeper. One has to pry past that which they ought never to look past."
The ashes melted and became another canvas.
"One has to indulge with evil to realize the things that form good, that form justice, that form the things that we think to be right…" A desperate whimper escaped his lips.
It became whole. But within this darkness, one could not truly see what might lie, and if there was someone else, another creature or thing that would show itself only if the black of the canvas were to be washed away, or bleached till it became just a surface of pure white.
"Kanrel, to understand and to condemn the monster that I am, you will have to witness through my eyes great sin. An abyss comparable to the Fall."
White in straight lines, as if chalk on a blackboard, emerged, connecting themselves into shapes and forms, soon drawing what seemed like the outline of a room.
"Forgive me, Kanrel, for what I have and will force you to see… and in them, you will find not only evil, but perhaps good as well, not just what I am, but also what you are."
Color was introduced again, the lines and shapes were filled with them, and soon, Kanrel could see a chair and on that chair, a tied person, a sack covered their head… It was… cold.
Past the chair, animal carcasses were hung. Frozen. And soon, he could feel how Ignar moved, in their other hand a bucket, and with their free hand, they uncovered the person: a knocked-out Sharan in deep slumber. Ignar lifted the bucket with both of his hands and poured it all over the poor bastard. Who then woke up with screams of shock…