Próklisi

Act 2: The bolt that would strike.

The next tug came from a strand filled with the hum of electricity. Elyndra was a gas giant, it’s atmosphere filled with clouds so thick mortal eyes could not see more than scant inches from their face, winds pushed violently causing what little solid ground existed to be thrown through the air at speeds that would crush bone. But Próklisi was no mortal, and the inhabitants of Elyndra saw without eyes. They called themselves the Zelyn, sentient beings of living plasma born from Elyndra’s storms. They had no bodies— they existed only as coils of pure plasma, voices that boomed like thunder, they felt the electromagnetic field of their world to know their way.

The Zelyn lived in perfect harmonic storms: every Zelyn willingly surrendered individuality to merge into larger, more beautiful tempests. No struggle. No rivalry.Only the Great Cyclones—eternal, serene, smug. Próklisi landed on the largest of the flying stones, feet sizzling against the ground. One Great Cyclone greeted him with a gentle roll of thunder. ”Solid thing that bends and burns, why have you come?”

“To bring competition and strength, so that you may become greater than what you are.” Próklisi responded, his voice carrying through the howl of the wind.

The Great Cyclone spun with a fury, spitting out a bolt of plasma that struck a flying stone with such force that it became dust. “What need have we of your strength? We are already strong as one!”

Próklisi considered this before responding, “It is true you are powerful together. You are the sum of many who are weak alone. What I offer would make them strong alone, so that when you are one they will bring you greater strength.”

“Show us.”

With the Great Cyclone’s permission, Próklisi went about setting up a testing field of flying rocks and debris. There were a few tests for those who would participate. Some to blast apart the stones as they flew past, some to channel their own magnetic fields to pull the stones together into larger chunks. One area was a maze where the plasma bolts would have to leap from stone to stone to reach the end, those who made it in the fewest leaps would be the winners.

Próklisi spread his arms, “The arena is set. Now we need our players.”

The Zelyn within the Great Cyclone stirred, some curious, some excited. Individual bolts began to separate, tentatively attempting to take forms similar to the golden being before them. Then she arrived. A single bolt detached entirely and struck the stone Próklisi stood upon. It coalesced into the shape of a woman – tall, electric, wild-plasma arcing from her head as hair.

She spoke, “I am Mira. Let us see what your challenges provide.” She was beautiful the way a supernova is beautiful—dangerous, defiant, inevitable. Próklisi felt his fire stutter, so smitten by her appearance that he did not catch the confusion from the Great Cyclone as three other bolts of plasma finally took form, setting gently upon nearby stones.

Realizing his players were present, he explained the contests and had each present practice to show they understood what was to be done. He had kept the tests simple for a reason, they were meant to improve coordination, power, and speed… not their minds. It was clear that some of the players’ minds had become lesser once they separated from the Great Cyclone, often mixing up which task went with which testing arena.

Mira however, had no such difficulties. Whether through luck or attention, she was able to complete each task with ease, though the others were quick to follow her example. The Great Cyclone was pleased with what was before it. Clearly, this ‘Mira’ was above the others, so it released more to see if any could best her.

As the Zelyn competed to show their abilities, to prove their worth, the Great Cyclone, now greatly weakened from so many Zelyn having separated, came down close to Próklisi. “The value is recognized. Your representative presents a goal for my parts.”

Próklisi took his eyes off the field around him to look at the once Great Cyclone in confusion. “My… representative? What do you mean?”

The Cyclone spun in confusion before responding, “This Mira of yours, the one who appeared by your side? They are not of me and mine, they are… different.”

Próklisi looked back to the field, out at the Zelyn. It took him a moment to realize the difference. Mira was the only one with a feminine form, all the others appeared masculine, having tried to copy his own form. Then it dawned on him… none of the Zelyn, to include the Great Cyclone, had given their name except for Mira. “She is not…” he began, but was interrupted by a sudden blast from within the maze of floating stones.

One of the Zelyn had just jumped from one stone to another, but before it reached it’s target, the chosen stone had been obliterated by an unforeseen blast. Now, it was tumbling through the air trying to find something to latch onto so it could rebound back to the group, but nearly all the stones in the area had been pulled in for this event. It was quickly falling to the center of the Gas Giant, Próklisi realized that if it went too deep it would never be able to come out. He dove, pushing himself to fall faster, which considering his mass wasn’t all that difficult.

As he neared the falling Zelyn he called out, “Strike me, use me as the stone to return!”  The Zelyn understood, lashing out to strike Próklisi full in the chest before bouncing back up to it’s brethren. Próklisi took the full brunt of the impact unfazed. He watched the Zelyn heading back up and simply stepped into Temporal Limbo, then stepped back into Elyndra’s strand to stand next to the Great Cyclone once more.

He returned with a scowl of confusion, smoke from the heat and ionization of the impact still swirling from where he had been struck. A voice called out from within the contestants. Mira’s voice. “You call this challenge? If you want to be more than weather, fight for it. Not to be great combined, but for survival. For the right to say I, the right to be strong alone!”

The other Zelyn paused, confused. None of them knew which was the first bolt to strike another, but Próklisi saw. It was Mira. Próklisi moved to grab her, but the Zelyn had begun blasting at one another. Their lightning became blades, their thunder roared out “Betrayal!” but they were not focused on Próklisi, they turned on one another. What had once been a simple game, a contest, was quickly devolving into a battlefield. Islands shattered under plasma broadsides as the skies began to bleed violet fire.

Próklisi reached Mira, but before he could get a grip on her she struck him in the chest with a whip of electrical current. His crimson cloak smoked, his skin glowed. That had actually hurt. Stunned he looked at Mira. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she snarled, “Real fire. Real risk. Strength and power on full display.”

He stared at her, furious and exhilarated. “Yes,” he admitted. “But not meaningless conflict.”

“Then give it meaning,” she said, stepping close enough that their plasmas mingled.“Make me immortal. Let me burn forever. Let me be the rival that makes your contests uncertain.”

For a moment Próklisi considered the proposal. Mira was beautiful, she was skilled, and … he touched his chest, where the pain from her strike still burned… she had power. More power than a mortal should have.

“No. Mortality is not yours to challenge,” he said, voice cracking like cooling iron.“It is the anvil on which greatness is forged. Without it, there is no victory worth having.”

Dara’s eyes flared white. “Then I will die the brightest death this world has ever seen.” She kissed him. Not gently. Lightning poured from her mouth into his… pure, wild, defiant current that burned them both white-hot. The kiss lasted an eternity and an instant.

When she pushed away, dropping to the Gas Giant’s core, her form was already unraveling, plasma scattering into a thousand dying bolts. She laughed all the way down.

Her final bolt struck Próklisi’s chest and carved her face into his memory and into the golden skin over his heart. She was gone. The war she had ignited raged on without her… beautiful, terrible, meaningless.

The Zelyn continued to fight for many minutes. Dozens fell and faded, their lives burned short by their own brethren. The Great Cyclone reformed, smaller, but more powerful. While it was saddened by the losses it witnessed, it was pleased to find that it was indeed stronger than before Próklisi’s arrival. “We thank you for showing us a path to strength.” It thundered.

Próklisi looked at the Great Cyclone, an edge of disbelief as he glanced to the fallen. “This… is not something you should thank me for.”

The Great Cyclone laughed, spinning off to tell the other Zelyn, to challenge, to fight… to wage war. Eryndra continued to drift through the weave, no longer silent as the thunder drums of war spread through the skies. Próklisi stood alone on a shattered island, hand pressed to the brand over his chest where Mira’s touch would never be forgotten.

He had wanted conflict with purpose. She had given him a war without end. He had wanted a rival. She had become a ghost. He looked at the ruined sky and spoke to the wind, “You win,” he said, voice raw.

Then he walked into the dark between worlds, leaving Eryndra to its endless, pointless lightning, carrying the first defeat he would be dealt, and the only face he would never forget.

After Eryndra, Próklisi walked the Weave with Mira’s face seared in his mind. Every victory tasted like ash. Every tournament he kindled rang hollow without her lightning laugh. He struck sparks harder, faster, desperate to drown the silence she had left. But always he held restraint, not letting his competitions turn to war. Not allowing a challenge turn to bloodshed.

On Crysthara, a lattice-world of large crystalline spiders, he turned their perfect communal webs into arenas of catch and release. “Do not take the least, aim only for the greatest of meals.”

The spiders wove their webs, they learned patience. They caught larger prey, fed well and in time they grew grand in size.

On Luminara, the cycle of the strand had evolved to its next incarnation. The Lumei were no longer the dominant species, they had evolved and were now called the Illum. The Illum formed their old coral seabeds into shells to protect them as they explored the few pockets of dry land that had begun appearing since the Eustatic Regression that marked the end of the Lumei’s Age. Próklisi challenged them to shape their colonies, to become giants that could walk with ease, not merely crawl. The Illum still remembered the colonies of old, and the darkness that followed. They refused to grow too large, but learned to cooperate, to explore their new surroundings. They began to build civilization on the land on their moon, as well as beneath its waves.

Soon a tug pulled at him from a strand that sang in wind and color. Próklisi followed it, stepping onto the world Aerithar, a windswept desert world dotted with the occasional oasis. It’s inhabitants, the Arun, were large flightless birds that ran across the dunes, darting from oasis to oasis. Próklisi smiled, they reminded him of the Vitroli. A simple inspiration, present another race, but for distance this time not speed.

The Arun dashed around him as he worked, cautiously watching, unsure what he was doing. One of them slowed, prancing around Próklisi as it squawked, “Golden stone in the sands, why do you linger?”

Próklisi laughed before responding, “I linger to give you a gift.”

“A gift?” another Arun asked, “how are lines in the sand a gift? The winds will cover them as the suns set.”

“Yes, a gift. A track, a path for which you may race upon. Not to reach the end the quickest, but to run as far as you can. So you may reach the furthest oasis, without need to pause at each refuge between here and your goal.”

The Arun began to slow, to gather and listen. “To run farther? To water that is not crowded?”

Próklisi clapped, startling some of the Arun. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, “A contest to challenge yourselves with, those who can run the farthest will be able to drink their fill without needing to wait.”

He set to explaining the challenge, one of his simplest, but one that clearly intrigued the Arun. The race soon began, Arun dashed along the trail, trying to run as far as they could. Soon some Arun learned that going just a step or two slower meant they could go kilometers farther. Others learned to follow in the slipstream of their partners to make the run gentler.

Próklisi ran alongside, cheering on each discovery, each clever maneuver, and the distance the Arun could run continued to beyond the horizon. Even those who had grown tired and rested in nearby shade, watched and squawked out encouragement. This was everything competition was meant to be.

Then she appeared. She arrived in a flash, her form shrouded in a storm gray cloak. Her hair moved wildly in the wind of the Arun’s passing, she ran beside the slowest racers, speaking softly. Próklisi heard her voice on the winds before he realized she had arrived, catching only fragments of what she said. “… why settle for second?”

“…they’re laughing at you.”

“…You can’t do better, but you can make them do worse…”

“…they’ll take what is yours.”

The mood shifted. The Arun in the back started attacking each other, some jumping on the back of others, pushing both into a crash of feathers and talons. Others tripping or ramming into their neighbors to push them behind. The commotion caught the attention of those in the lead, and they began to speed up, fear pushing them forward… draining their stamina.

Próklisi stood in the track, shouting, his voice ringing with authority and pleading. “Stop! This is not the contest! The challenge is for yourself, not against your brethren!” Then he saw her, the only form similar to his on this world. She turned to him, and he recognized those eyes. The lightning may have been replaced with flesh, but that was definitely Mira. He eyes were the same, her life thread identical. How was this possible?

Próklisi charged straight at her, catching her wrist as the race continued to dissolve into balls of flying feather. She turned, and the sky itself seemed to pause. Up close she was startlingly mortal, storm-colored eyes, a small, sad smile. “You wanted them to be the best they can,” she said gently. “Now they make sure none can be better.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, light as rain, warm as summer thunder. The contact sent a jolt through him, not of pain, but of certainty. Using his pause, Mira vanished, leaving Aerithar entirely. Próklisi looked, but her thread was gone from the world, it was as if her thread had been cleanly plucked from existence itself.

He was about to step into the void to try and track her down, when a squawk of pain brought his attention back to the Arun. “ENOUGH!” he roared, draining all sense of competition from those present. The Arun looked around in confusion, some still writhing in pain. He walked amongst the wounded, wielding his flames to seal what wounds he could. When he finished he was surprised to find that none had died… this time.

One of the Arun approached him cautiously, hopping to avoid pressure on an injured leg. “What was that? Why did we turn on each other?” it asked.

Próklisi looked at the flightless bird, frowning at it’s injury. He had no answer. Mira… if that was Mira… could not be here, could she? The Arun waited patiently for his response, any response. Próklisi looked down, ashamed. “A mystery that I must face myself. One that must be answered before others get hurt.”

He returned to Temporal Limbo, carrying with him every wound the Arun had received in his heart. The gentle fire of competition flickering with something colder. Vengeance. He had wanted them to grow. Instead, he watched their joy curdle into pain.

On Aerithar, the Arun began preening, cleaning each other and checking their wounds. They cleared out the feathers that had been torn away, but a few of them had paused. They stood around a single storm-colored feather, one that had not fallen from any Arun. It sat on the sands, slowly dissolving into starlight.