Chapter 739 - Monsters and Monsters

Zeke sat on the balcony, his feet dangling over the edge as he leaned back on his palms.  Pudge’s domain was a truly idyllic setting, complete with a perfect sunset that cast the sky in shades of oranges and blues that looked like the work of a master impressionist painter.  He was forced to shoulder his perception of the threads aside just so he could take pleasure in the beauty of it. 

It worked, though only to a degree.  The knowledge that none of it was real hovered over him like a threatening specter.  One stray thought, and reality would reassert itself.  It was inevitable.  The nature of reality could only be kept at bay for so long, even with his incredible willpower holding it in place. 

He chose to enjoy it while he could.

He watched as true night fell, and the area surrounding the stump lit up with the subtle glow of mana lights.  They weren’t nearly as harsh as the streetlights from his youth, which gave the city a painterly quality that concurrently made it seem more and less real.  But whatever he felt when he looked at it, he couldn’t deny that Pudge had built his domain into a paradise.

More, he couldn’t escape the questions in his mind.  Had the other domains he’d destroyed been similarly paradisical?  Had those people been peaceful as well?  Aja’s elves probably had been, though he had some difficulty expecting the same from Oda’s demons.  What about those couple billion people who’d died at the end of his errant thoughts?

Zeke found that even more troubling.

The followers of various greater gods might not have been guilty, but they weren’t entirely innocent either.  But the others?  They were unattached and entirely undeserving of their fate.  That Zeke had killed them with a few stray thoughts, screamed across the universe with such ferocity that they had been weaponized, was more than a little depressing. 

Zeke wasn’t certain how long he sat there alone.  No more than a few hours, though he had to acknowledge that his perception of time was, at best, shaky.  At worst, it was woefully inaccurate.  When he lived his life on a scale of thousands of years, a few hours flew by like they were no more than a couple of seconds. 

Still, he was unsurprised when he felt someone approach. 

“People were looking for you,” said Pudge, settling in beside him.  “They have questions.”

“I don’t know that I have any answers for them,” Zeke said. 

“You don’t get to say that.”

Zeke sighed, and he felt the threads quiver at the simple expression of his disappointment.  “I know.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Zeke glanced at his brother.  Pudge was more family than the one he’d left behind with his first death.  Certainly, his relationship with the former dire bear had lasted much longer than the one with his first brother.  But oddly enough, Tommy still occupied a unique space in his heart and mind.  So did Pudge, though if he was honest about it, it was smaller. 

The same was true of everyone he’d met after being reborn in those troll caves.

Was that just how the mind worked?  Did people naturally give early experiences more weight than they deserved?  Or was it something about the world?  Was it somehow less real than the Earth he remembered?

“I was training.”

“Six-thousand, three-hundred and four.”

“What?”

“Six-thousand, three-hundred, and four.  That’s how many years you were gone,” Pudge said.  “And you were training.”

Zeke let out another sigh, then locked his eyes on the horizon in the distance.  After a second, he admitted, “I didn’t realize it was that long.  If I had…”

He couldn’t even finish the thought because he didn’t want to lie to Pudge.  The reality of it was that he would have remained out there for another ten thousand years if that meant he figured everything out.  He had made incredible progress with the threads, but he still lacked true understanding.  Rather, he felt like a man who’d learned to draw by tracing other people’s work.  He didn’t understand the underlying theory that would make him a true artist.

But saying that to Pudge would have been a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “It was never my intention to abandon you.”

“You did, though.  You abandoned us all.”

“I said –”

“That you were sorry.  I heard you,” Pudge interrupted.  “It doesn’t mean anything.  I don’t think you regret it.”

“I…I don’t.”

“Then why apologize?”

“Because I am sorry.  I am,” Zeke insisted. “I’m sorry that I chose to take this burden upon myself.  I’m sorry I brought you into it.  I’m sorry that I don’t have a choice.” 

“Is that how you look at it?  Like you don’t have a choice?”

“I don’t.  Pudge, this isn’t about me,” he said.  But before he could elaborate, Pudge let out a harsh chuckle.  “What?” Zeke asked.

“Oh?” asked Pudge, feigning misunderstanding.  “I thought that was a joke.”

“It’s not about me.”

“It’s always been about you, Zeke.  That’s just how you think.  It’s not your fault.  Not really,” Pudge explained.  “It’s just who you are.  You rarely think about how your actions affect anyone else.  Not until it’s thrust into your face, making you acknowledge it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Pudge asked. 

Zeke started to respond, but he cut himself off.  Not because he didn’t know what to say, but rather, because he found the entire notion comical.  Especially after what he’d been thinking when Pudge had approached.  “Do you know what was on my mind when you came up here?”

Pudge shook his head.

“I was thinking about how many people have died at my hand,” he said.  “We’re in the billions by this point.  And I tell myself it’s necessary.  I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, that we’re all just strings.  I tell myself that it’s justified because if I don’t follow this path, all of reality will be devoured by some unknowable eldritch beings that I can’t really perceive but I know are there.  What I see when I look at them…it defies any notion of recognition.  But I can feel their hunger.  They want to tear us all apart.  Not just our strings, either.  They want our souls.”

He shook his head.  “And you know what?  That’s scarier to me than killing billions.  You say I don’t think about anyone else?  That’s all I think about!” he growled.  The world flexed with his anger.  With some degree of will, he brought himself under control.  In a softer voice, he continued, “That’s all I can think about because I know I’m the only one who can stop it.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why are you the only person who can stop it?  If you can gain enough power, then everyone can,” Pudge stated.  “It’s just a matter of –”

“It’s not like that,” Zeke said.

“We’re all part of the same Framework.  We just need to gain levels and –”

“I’m not a part of the Framework.  Do you even know what it is?  Do you know how it works?” Zeke asked.  “I do.  The Framework is a cage.  The only reason it connects to everyone is so that you can funnel power through it.  It’s simultaneously a system meant to guide people to greater power and a literal cage to guard against the adversary that wants to devour our whole reality.

“And I’ve transcended it.  I don’t know why.  Not for sure.  I think it’s almost coincidence.  Just a confluence of perfect factors that came together to give me the one opportunity to make a difference.  If I lacked even one factor, or if I made even one different choice…if I didn’t step on a bug in the troll caves where I was reborn, I probably wouldn’t be here,” Zeke rambled. 

He’d considered it all before, and that was the only real explanation he could conjure.  But calling it coincidence and clinging to that was too easy.  He wanted to believe he’d been born special, and that was why Oberon had dragged him to his rebirth.  But in his heart, he knew that wasn’t true.  Perhaps he had potential, but him transcending the Framework had never been part of Oberon’s plan. 

How could it have been?

Instead, the dwarven god had simply wanted company in his own ascension.  Zeke had exceeded that expectation.  Partly, because he was lucky.  Partly, because the Framework had pushed him in that direction.  And also because of that potential.  Theoretically, someone else could have followed the same path, but he didn’t think it likely.  There were too many variables. 

For better or worse, he was the only chance to save everyone.

“Believe me, I wish someone else could see what I see.  Oberon only ever saw glimpses of the threads.  I don’t think greater gods can see it as clearly as I can.  And they definitely can’t manipulate it the same way,” Zeke said.  “This is a universe of shadows cast by strings no one else can even perceive.  That’s why it has to be me, Pudge.  That’s why I can’t let up, even if it costs me everything.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?  You think you’re a hero.”

“No.  Not at all. God, no,” Zeke said, shaking his head.  “I’m a monster, Pudge.  But sometimes, you need a monster to fight the worse monster.”

“I don’t…I don’t know if I’m capable of understanding,” Pudge admitted, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.  “Sasha says that I should just trust that you know what you’re doing.”

“She does?”

Pudge sighed.  “She supports you.  I think she sees a lot more than me,” he explained.  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“None of us do.”

“Talia does.”

“She’s special.”

“Like you?”

“Like her,” Zeke said. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else like her.”

“Have you spoken to her since you got back?” Pudge asked.

Zeke shook his head.  “Not yet,” he answered.  “I don’t think she’ll welcome me with open arms.”

“She will,” Pudge predicted.  “It might take a while before she comes around, but she will.  I can almost guarantee it.”

After that, the two fell silent, which stretched for almost twenty minutes before Zeke said, “Do you remember much about when you were a dire bear?” he asked. 

Pudge said that he didn’t, adding, “I get a few flashes here and there, mostly toward the end of our time in the Mortal Realm.”

“When we met, you were so small,” Zeke said, holding his hands a couple of feet apart.  “I was trying to save your mother.  You know that, right?”  Pudge nodded.  “I failed.  It seems I do that a lot.  But there you were.  I bonded you.  It was a stupid move, too.  Abby told me so a thousand times.  I could have killed us both, but somehow, it worked out.”

“I…I don’t know how to respond to that.”

Zeke didn’t address that.  Instead, he asked, “Do you remember when we used to wrestle?  Ironically, you were a lot bigger back then.  A couple thousand pounds at least.  I started out holding back, but as you got stronger, you made me push myself.  And now look at you.  You’re a greater god.  That’s the pinnacle of power.  You have actual worshippers.  Thousands of them, from what I can see.”

“Millions.”

“I just…everything is so different.  Sometimes, I look back, and it feels like it’s only been a few short years.  But then I think about everything that’s happened in the interim, and I see just how long it’s really been.  I don’t think people were meant to deal with this kind of time scale,” he said.

“Probably not.  But what else can we do?  Nobody wants to die.”

Zeke frowned.  He wasn’t really so sure that was the case.  On the one hand, he didn’t wish for his own death.  He wasn’t suicidal.  But he didn’t think it would be some great tragedy if his sacrifice was a requirement for success.  He’d make that trade a thousand times over.

“Can you do something for me?” Zeke asked.

“Maybe.”

“Let’s just pretend none of this happened.  Like, maybe it’s right after we ascended to the Eternal Realm.  Like there’s not a wide gulf of power and time between us,” he requested.  “Can we do that?  Just for a little while.”

Pudge was silent for only a moment until he said, “I think I can.”

“Thanks.”

And like that, they remained silent as they looked out over Pudge’s domain, pretending that the weight of all of reality didn’t rest on Zeke’s shoulders.  It was a nice moment.  Destined to end, but that was what gave it meaning.  Perhaps that was the lesson to be learned. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe everything didn’t need to teach him some lesson.  Maybe he could just enjoy a moment of normalcy with his brother.