The Infinite Ascent
Chapter 36: The Loom Of Forgotten Skies
As I advanced along the road that lay before me, it shimmered like molten glass shimmering in the sun's unforgiving embrace. Its surface was an enigma, an ethereal blend that seemed neither solid nor truly liquid, but something infinitely more complex, alive with an array of shifting hues that danced across its form, echoing the endless veins of light that stretched into an eternity unknown to mortals. Each step I took felt precarious and uncertain, as if the very ground beneath my feet was evaluating my worthiness to traverse its enigmatic length. Behind us, the colossal Heart of Roads pulsed rhythmically, a constant reminder that with every beat we moved farther away from the familiar terrain of our past, slipping deeper and deeper into that intricate lattice of uncertainty and the unknowable mysteries that lay ahead.
Above us, the skies were a chaotic marvel, twisting and contorting in ways that defied earthly comprehension. They bore no resemblance to the blue of day or the dark of night, nor did they fit into any category discernible by human eyes. Instead, they were adorned with vast threads of shimmering silver and gold, which crisscrossed the heavens in a mesmerizing tapestry. Interlaced among these threads were runes, ancient symbols imbued with power, older than any language we knew, glowing softly as if inscribed by hands that once wielded the very fabric of creation but had long since faded into the mists of forgotten mythology. Floating among those fantastical skies were fragments of worlds long lost to time: monumental shards of mountains hung suspended in midair, colossal tree roots spiraled through the clouds akin to serpents weaving through verdant jungles, while oceans tumbled upward in defiance of gravity, cascading in unreal waterfalls that evaporated into a fine mist before making contact with the woven firmament of the sky.
Beside me, the boy's eyes were wide with wonder, darting back and forth from one impossibility to the next. His innocent awe remained untainted, untouched by the fear that typically encroaches upon the hearts of those who bear witness to such majesty. "Are those… worlds?" he whispered in a tone filled with reverence. "Broken worlds?"
The scarred man beside him turned his gaze skyward, his expression hardening, lines of sorrow etched into his features. He walked slower than the rest of us, each step heavy, as if he bore the burden of all that lay before us. "Ruins," he finally spoke, his voice low and laden with gravity, almost reverent. "These are the remnants of those who came before, their realms unraveled and draped across the heavens like trophies of a long-lost victory or warnings to those who would not heed the lessons of history."
The crimson woman in our party tilted her head upward, her flames flickering fiercely as the silver runes above flickered in her burning eyes. "Not trophies," she countered with fervor. "Threads. Each ruin represents a vital thread cut too soon, woven into the Loom of Skies so that the Ascent may always remember them. This place is memory made manifest, an archive of existence that serves as both tribute and lament."
Her words sank into my consciousness, heavy and resonant, intertwining with my very being as I examined the vast expanse above. It was undeniably beautiful, yes, but also imbued with a profound sorrow that threatened to engulf me. I realized then that these weren't mere phantasms or fleeting visions; these were the final echoes of civilizations beckoning from beyond the veil, erased by choice and swallowed into the abyss of oblivion when the Ascent had weighed them and found them wanting.
It was at that moment the path we were on forked unexpectedly, splitting into seven distinct paths. Each one twisted and curled toward a different sky fragment that hovered far above, a surreal spectacle dazzling the eye. Some of the paths glimmered with a warm, inviting brilliance, their fragments rich with thriving forests and rippling rivers, alive with faint shadows that hinted at the presence of life. Others pulsed ominously with a sickly, decaying light, their jagged shards cracked and barren, resembling dying embers stubbornly refusing to be extinguished.
In a moment of trepidation, the boy turned to me, his voice trembling with uncertainty and longing. "Which one do we take?" He asked, glancing nervously at the myriad of paths that beckoned us forward.
The scarred man tightened his grip on the weapon at his side, his knuckles whitening. "Choose wrong, and we will find ourselves trapped in a realm destined to wither away," he warned gravely. "Choose wisely, and we will glean the knowledge of what the Ascent demands." Though his voice was steady, I caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his jaw, a telltale sign of the fear that gripped his heart.
I studied the paths before us, but the choice felt elusive; each one appeared as both an invitation and a trap, a promise intermingled with a palpable threat. Beneath it all, I felt the Ascent observing us, not with the indifference of a cruel taskmaster, but with an intensity that suggested a deeper connection, as if the roads themselves paused with bated breath, anticipating our declaration of what sort of travelers we were destined to become.
Then, like ripples breaking across a still pond, whispers filled the air, imbuing the atmosphere with a haunting resonance. These were not the cries of forgotten worlds that we had heard earlier; rather, they were voices far older, quieter, imbued with a sense of finality. They resonated with the cadence of sorrow and the weight of innumerable warnings, that the threads of reality could be both delicate and fierce.
"Do not tread where memory lies," one voice murmured softly, a cautionary note woven into the very fabric of the universe.
"Do not chase what is already gone," lamented another, its tone filled with pain and longing.
But then came a softer whisper, almost imperceptible, yet slicing through the melancholic refrain: "To walk the ruin is to learn the weight of choice."
In that moment, every thread of uncertainty solidified within me as I pondered not only our next step forward but also the irrevocable nature of the decisions we would make, choices that could echo through the ages, shaping our path as well as the fates of the worlds that hung, suspended in silence, around us. The woman clad in crimson gazed at me, her vibrant flames flickering gently as if they had been momentarily quelled by the weight of the voices around us. "They're offering us knowledge," she declared, her voice echoing with a strange mixture of reverence and caution. "Not every path we encounter leads us forward into the light. Some paths grant us a glimpse into the shadows of the past. To learn from the dead is to safeguard the living." Her words lingered ominously in the air, wrapping around us like the last remnants of a fading fire.
The scarred man among us, a figure marked by the trials he had faced, shook his head vehemently, his eyes steadfastly focused on the shards of light shimmering above us. "Knowledge is useless if it kills us," he retorted, his tone resolute, as if he were guarding against an unseen threat. "We're meant to walk toward life, not to hasten our own demise." His conviction was palpable, driving home the gravity of our situation and the choices that lay ahead.
Beside me, a small and fragile boy turned his gaze toward me once more. His eyes were not filled with answers, but rather a deep-seated trust that seemed to radiate from his very being. In that silent exchange, I was struck by the crushing weight of realization: every step we took was not just a matter of survival, but an act that would shape the narrative of these skies, the tapestry that would preserve the memories of worlds that rightfully deserved to endure, as opposed to those that would ultimately be surrendered to the Loom, lost forever to time.
I found myself closing my eyes, attempting to block out the cacophony of voices, the conflicting opinions of my companions, and instead focused solely on the rhythmic pulse of the road beneath my feet. In that intimate moment, I thought I detected a subtle tug, a gentle, almost imperceptible pull, as if the Ascent itself was whispering to me, revealing hidden inclinations and preferences.
When I finally reopened my eyes, I was taken aback by the transformation around us: the skies overhead seemed to radiate a more brilliant light, the runes carved into the very fabric of our path glowed with newfound intensity, and the shattered remnants of our world shifted slightly, as if they were responding to my newly heightened awareness. The choice that lay ahead remained daunting, but now it transcended simple direction; it had evolved into a profound reflection of who we aspired to become amidst the chaos.
As we approached the fork in the road, an unmistakable sense of purpose surged within me. I understood, in that pivotal moment, that the journey ahead would not only test our determination but would also challenge the very essence and significance of memory itself. It was a journey that would redefine our relationship with both the past we sought to learn from and the future we yearned to forge.
To be continued...