Burden of Sisyphus

Tentatively tapping the door handle, she was surprised to find it cool to the touch. Quickly opening it, she looked up the unusually long stairwell. Behind her, the door clicked closed softly behind her, cutting off the smoke and flames. As it closed, the sounds of the flickering lights and distant, wavering flames disappeared.

Keryn walked up slowly, her lungs screaming for fresh air. She tried to keep her eyes on the tall door at the top of the stairs, but it remained lost in the distance. No matter how many stairs she climbed, it never came closer.

After walking for what seemed forever, her legs ached from exhaustion, and her breath came in labored gasps. Still, the doorway remained out of reach.

Resting her head in her arms, she leaned against the railing and tried to catch her breath. Slowly, her lungs relaxed, and air flowed past her torn, raw throat.

On her dry tongue, Keryn noticed an unusual tang to the air, which triggered her taste buds. Confused, she stepped up one stair, as she pushed off from the railing, and felt a seashell crunch under her heel.

Barefoot, she felt the stair’s carved, pitted texture. She stepped back to look. The sterilized gray of the Academy steps was replaced by soft pink and blue pastel coral. Looking up higher, her lips quivering, she stared up the arched walkway leading to the Shrine of Initiation. A soft breeze blew salt air across her face, drying some of the sweat on her brow. In the distance, she heard crashing waves like rolling thunder, breaking on the cliff face. Nervously, she took another step higher, moving toward the Shrine’s auditorium and the Warrior’s Circle.

Along the staircase, she saw figures carved into the coral walls. Looking closer, she realized they weren’t the religious figures of the Wyndgaart she saw so many times. These were twisted abominations. Each panel showed another scene between the man and woman, telling a story, as Keryn climbed higher. Though the figures started together in a semblance of the mating couple dominant in Wyndgaart theology, the next panel showed them separated. The male and female figures that once writhed together in pleasure faced each other in combat.

Expressions of murderous rage were etched on those faces, as they brandished deadly weapons. The pair clashed time and again, as the scene progressed, leaving both with gaping wounds and covered in their own blood.

Glancing upward, Keryn saw she was near the end of the stairs. Dread clenched her heart, as she prepared to step into the unknown. Intent on cresting the staircase and facing what awaited her, she failed to notice the last panel in the relief, a scene in which a dozen tentacles erupted from the spine of the male figure, as he threw himself at the female.

Stepping through the archway, Keryn found herself wearing Initiate’s garb. Broad strips of fabric wound around her chest and groin. In her hand was a ceremonial Wyndgaart dagger, its blade curved and razor sharp. Hesitantly, she stepped from the entryway and passed between the elevated auditorium seating, as she approached the Warrior’s Circle.

No soft chanting reached her ears. Unlike the last time she was there, no audience filled the seats. Glancing left and right, she walked toward the sandy stage. Above, a full moon cast its silvery light on the Shrine. Aside from the crashing waves, no sound reached her ears.

Keryn stepped into the Warrior’s Circle, smiling to herself at the feel of soft sand cushioning her feet. She fought many battles in sand like that during her years of schooling. The feel brought memories flooding to her, as well as a sense of longing. Since leaving her home, she never felt as homesick as she did, standing in the Circle, breathing salty air and feeling sand between her toes.

It’s hard to let go, isn’t it? a woman from the far side of the Circle asked.

Spinning toward the voice, Keryn gave a surprised yelp and staggered backward. Across from her, just outside the Warrior’s Circle, was a replica of herself. Dressed in a cadet’s uniform, the doppelganger smiled confidently. Her flowing silver hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, allowing her bright tattoos to shine in the moonlight.

Keryn dropped into a defensive stance with the knife held in front of her, threatening. “Who are you?” she hissed.

The mimic walked casually around the Circle, ignoring her question, as she admired the architecture of the Shrine. Keryn turned with her, keeping her dagger ready.

You spend so much time focusing on the end task, you barely ever take time to admire the world around you, the woman said. Life seems to pass you by before you realize it.

“Who are you? What are you?”

The woman paused and turned toward her. A familiar smile fell upon her lips, one Keryn saw many times in her own mirror. Though she refused to believe her eyes, she knew the woman mimicked her actions perfectly.

You already know what I am, Keryn. You’ve heard my Voice in your head many times.

Keryn stared at the strange woman, letting her voice roll through her mind repeatedly. She was right, and Keryn knew it. Though she never envisioned a personification for it, she knew she was looking at her own Voice.

I never asked for much from you. She stepped forward, leaving a trail behind her. Barely visible, it showed a hundred different faces in her wake, as if Keryn looked at a series of mirrors. My only request was that you make us proud in whatever you chose to do. You aren’t making us proud, Keryn.

The words struck with physical force. Keryn staggered backward before collapsing to the sand. The Voice spoke as if channeling a hundred ancestral voices through her own.

You turned your back on us, Keryn. The words echoed in the air, alternating in pitch and tone, first sounding soft and feminine, then deep and masculine. You rejected us. You have left us in limbo, waiting for the day you decide to merge.

“This isn’t real.” She climbed to her feet. “You aren’t real!”

In a blur, the Voice was before her. With surprising strength, it caught her cheek with a backhand slap that tossed her down to the sand. Keryn touched the pain flaring on her face.

Did that feel real enough? Do you still think this is a dream? Do you think it’s not real?

As she ran her fingers over her bruised cheek, true fear twisted her stomach. “What do you want from me?”

It’s not what I want. It’s what they want. With a wave of her hand, the stands filled with cadets. Though the figures in the seats wore cadet uniforms, their faces were blank. Flowing hair or dense fur framed their heads, stopping at the edge of empty ovals. Enough seats were filled that Keryn was sure every cadet was represented in the packed auditorium.

They sat stoically in their seats, clutching a multitude of glowing, shimmering knives and blades similar to those she wielded during her aerial joust.

They want revenge, Keryn. Every person here is someone you defeated during the ground- fighting portion of your training. Look in the front row. See the boy with crutches? You hurt him so bad in the bar, he won’t be able to walk on his own for a week or more.

Keryn saw the faceless figure that was clearly Zalide, Sasha’s boyfriend. Though he had no readable expression, his body language showed a clear desire for revenge. He swung his shimmering knife angrily, and the blade seemed to yearn for her blood. Keryn scanned the rest of the crowd, searching for other familiar faces.

They aren’t here. The Voice read her mind. Some don’t want you dead, so they aren’t present. One wants you dead so badly, there was no way she could be represented as just another faceless person among the crowd.

As Keryn watched, the Voice walked toward the low wall at the back of the Shrine to look over the ledge, down hundreds of feet to the crashing waves.

They want your blood, Keryn. I might’ve stopped them, but you turned your back on me and your entire race. Now I leave you to them, and I turn my back on you.

Keryn scampered to her feet, as the crowd stood in unison. Slowly, moving like animated corpses, the audience shambled toward her, jabbing the air with greedy knives. The weight in her hand shifted. Looking down, she saw she no longer held the ceremonial knife. In one hand was her blue, shimmering blade, while the other held the pistol from the joust.