Imago
Noun. Plural imagoes or imagenes.
1. An insect in its final, adult, sexually mature, and typically winged state.
2. An idealized mental image of another person or the self.
Names have meaning; in bestowing them upon a child, a parent hopes that they will embody the qualities associated with that meaning. Thus is born Aemilia, who will strive to overcome fearful odds; Tizoc, who is meant to sacrifice in the name of the gods so the sun will continue to shine; Farhad, who will bring joy into his home; Xochitl, the flower who keeps the rite of spring.
My name is Imago, warrior-scholar, guardian of the ivory spire, born as I am – fully formed, yet incomplete. My father – my author – named me in jest, for although I am meant to embody zealous certainty, I possess only fragmented memories, shattered pieces of my own past, and it fills me with longing and doubt. Who was I before I came to the spire? Where do I come from? Did I have another name, another life, a different way of seeing the world? Was I loved?
The answer to all my questions is one, and I have known it from the first instant of my existence. I am the creation of a madman, of an egomaniac who wished to be seen as a god. Before him there was nothing, and thus I am no one, no one except who I was written to be. All these mismatched fragments that are my past, all these orphaned threads of memory, they are also his creation – fictional, empty. They never happened, because I never happened. Storytellers are nothing but liars, and we are their greatest lie.
And yet, I envy those who Shiloh endowed with a lie more complete than mine. I envy those to whom he gave a childhood, family, friends, a place to call home. I envy those who know their full story, fictitious as it is, for where Shiloh failed to weave the details, they filled in the gaps with threads of their own.
I wish I could do the same. I wish I could take the crevices of my life and character that Shiloh left unwritten and fill them with precious moments that neither he nor anyone else could ever take from me. But he wrote me as an amnesiac, my past implied but never confirmed through the uneven pieces of an incomplete puzzle, left to the interpretation of the reader. To yearn for those memories that I was robbed of – though I never had them in the first place – is the crux of who I am, the motive that moves me forward in the plot Shiloh wrote.
You cannot fathom how much I loathe you, how much I wish to see you drown again and again.
In his story, I am the keeper of the ivory spire – a great monolith in the middle of the desert, bleached white by the triplet suns and containing the incorrupt remains of an unnamed God and the yellowed scrolls that are His word. This has been my duty ever since I was rescued from the sands that swallowed my past and inducted into the Order of Desdenova, of whom I believe myself to be the last living acolyte, for none have come in ten years bearing our symbol of the Distant Star. I spend my days torn between upholding the oath I swore to my defunct Order or leaving to find the past I lost. Every day I reproach myself, for how can I abandon my charge, my sacred mission, when I owe everything to those who are no longer with me, the masked men who gave me the name Imago and taught me the ways of war and beauty? I am defined by my promise to protect the divine corpse, made whole by the certainty of my own righteousness. And yet, I doubt. I am a man who knows nothing beyond the sands and the horizon, and I wonder if there remains someone out there who remembers who I was before the Order and the dead God and the eternal vigil under the triplet suns. I want to know who I was, to make sense of these disjointed visions that I experience whenever the wind whispers in my ears, these fragments that belong to someone who I no longer am.
You ingrate. I gave you no past so you would stand out amongst the other characters, an unsolvable mystery for readers to wrap their heads around as they tried following the breadcrumbs I scattered through the story. I made you one of my most fascinating creations, and this is how you thank me?
Yes, I see them, the shards of my unraveled being.
A whistling of chapped lips, a happy sound in the face of adversity.
Hunger and thirst, tears to drink and dust to eat, a melody hummed to soothe me.
The sea under a starry night, the calm waves a mirror for the celestial dance, a galley floating towards me on a path of milky light.
The taste of blood, then a pair of firm hands pulling me up, coarse but kind, and the words "You must be stronger."
The sand in storm, the desert an unfathomable god of wrath, the ivory spire at my back the last bastion of reason against the roar of the maddened elements.
I want to piece it all together, to weave back what was torn and sundered, to shape it all into a sole, cohesive story. I crave for it, and it eats me from within.
Then comes the stranger Nabarel on his journey to whatever lies beyond the desert, weak and wounded, and asks for sanctuary. Within me, something writhes, the craving made stronger by this sudden company, and this living man of flesh and blood supersedes the lifeless, unchanging body of the God as my mission. I dress his wounds and set his bones. I stand guard close to his bed to make sure that he is still breathing. I feed him soft foods procured from my own rations and give him to drink the precious dew I collect every morning. I gaze at the horizon and sharpen my blade should his enemies ride from out of the setting suns.
As the weeks slip by and Nabarel slowly recuperates, I realize that I am loath to see him go; only now do I fathom the depths of my own loneliness. He seems to realize it as well, for as I tend to him, he speaks with a candid voice and asks me to tell him what little I know about myself. He, in turn, tells me of his dreams, the ones that pushed him far from his home and into this quest that has almost cost him his life. He speaks of celestial fires and shattered towers, of gilded statues that speak the tongues of men, of foreign magic and the answer to the prayers that go unspoken. "If only you could dream it," Nabarel tells me as his fingers subtly caress mine, "then mayhap you would have hope." I know what he asks of me without asking. I know what he wants but will not tell. I know what he is, what he will be if I allow this to continue. But I cannot resist. In the end, seduced by his charm and his promises of helping me find someone who can restore my memories, I betray everything I know and join him. The uncertainty that gnaws at my insides triumphs, and I doom myself to shame.
The story continues in typical Wrun fashion. Nabarel and I face dreadful challenges and devious adversaries on our quest, and as the plot progresses, we grow closer. The passion that has been simmering in our chests since our first encounter culminates at dusk by firelight, a scene that Wrun describes with painstaking detail, affording us no privacy. Still, it's not all that bad: Nabarel's hands on my face are like a balm for the anguish of my own amnesia and, for an instant, I can almost let go of my craving. He is the answer to a question I did not even know to ask.
Then, in yet another common trope Shiloh seems to relish writing, I am betrayed. Nabarel – unbeknownst to me but not to the reader – is a charlatan, an impostor and liar. He has been using me, I realize, to defend him against his enemies, to take the blade against those who oppose him in his fulfillment of his own selfish ambitions. There was never a way to restore my memories; it was all a ruse to get me to abandon my post and the Order of Desdenova, a false promise to make me march across the desert in his service. I hurt now like never before.
A necessary sacrifice. The plot demanded it; your story could never end any other way.
In my grief and anger, I take my hands to Nabarel's throat as he wades on the shallow waters of the beach, my discovery of his betrayal unknown to him, and squeeze. I care little for the knife he desperately thrusts into my body again and again as his face begins to turn purple and the water turns red; the pain I feel in my broken heart is greater than the sharp kisses of the blade, deeper than the burning water that rushes down my throat and into my lungs with one last briny inhalation, and I am not letting go. Thus ends the novel Nabarel, with two lovers spilling each other's blood and drowning together – a callback to one of Wrun's earlier works. The curtain falls and all that remains is the lulling rumor of the waves.
To this day, I still dream of drowning. The water is heavy, thick like petrol, and it sticks to my skin, a myriad of liquid fingers creeping up my body as I desperately try to keep my head above the waterline. In the horizon, the sun is about to set, the last of its light a sanguine ribbon cast upon the sea; I grasp for it like it's a lifeline, only for my hand to futilely go through as darkness envelops all. I try to scream, but something pulls me under and my throat aches as water forces its way inside, lungs burning with the agony that precedes the quiet resignation of the dead. In my open, lifeless eyes shines one final glint, one final sight etched across my empty pupils: the equally dead face of Nabarel, his expression a perpetual rictus of terror as his sinks alongside me, our ends forever entwined.
On such nights, when sleep eludes me after the nightmare of my own death relived, I read by lantern koi light. In truth, night and day are more of a consensus than a reality in the Wanderers' Library, yet darkness comes nonetheless, and the shelves are silent but for the rustling of my chosen book's pages and the occasional chittering of the nocturnal creatures that emerge to roam under the not-night ceiling.
The lantern koi flock to me in schools three dozen strong, attracted by the lures I've installed around my home atop the Shelf of Ynnol the Lesser – small mechanical feeders that shoot up small luminescent specks into the air like swarms of fireflies. I learned how to make them from a book I found on this very shelf, Liminal Animal Husbandry: A Beginners' Guide by Kailin Sereno, and they work like a charm: my small cottage is enveloped in the soft, multicolored luminescence of the lantern koi who float idly through the air, their mouths lazily gaping open to catch whatever specks of light come their way. I sit amongst them, occasionally outstretching my arm and letting them swim close to my fingers, almost caressing their shimmering scales, and I read.
I read about most anything I can get my hands on. Chronicles of wars and epidemics, poetry and essays, scientific discoveries and voyages into the unknown, worlds far beyond the Library and beyond what any living soul has ever seen. I was written as a warrior-scholar, and now I dedicate myself to nurturing that latter part of my character. I even read fiction, although I prefer not to discuss this with my fellow bookborn; it is still a sensitive topic even these many years after our liberation.
This is a peaceful life I have chosen, full of contemplation and quiet wonder. Few Wanderers ever venture this far away from the Main Hall, and those who do seldom notice me or my home. The only time I interact with others is when I set out to acquire supplies, and I make my stay as brief as possible. I prefer it this way; having company is good, but it is in solitude where I can truly listen to myself and try to come to terms with my own existence and my role in this new life I have been granted. In this, I am not alone.
We all felt lost at first in the aftermath of our excision from Shiloh's books; when all you know is someone writing your life for you, a whispering voice that dictates every step you take and even what you feel, freedom can is bound to be terrifying. Suddenly, your head is quiet, empty save for yourself, and the feeling that you are about to collapse like a marionette with its strings cut is overwhelming. What now? we all asked ourselves, for we had no direction and no set path on which to walk.
Eléi was one of the first to figure out what she wanted to do with her new life. With painstakingly earned trust from other bookborn, she built a support network for our people, a safe space where we could mourn for ourselves and the Shapeless Ones, where we could speak about our pain and exorcise the ghosts of resentment and guilt that plagued us. I attended some of them when she first started, but I soon found out that my predicament was harder to express to others, harder for them to understand and relate to. I hold no reproach against them; I am, after all, a unique case, an oddity even amongst my own kind. They do not know what it is like to hold close the jagged shards of your own past and have them bleed you.
Although I no longer attend to these meetings, I have stayed in touch with Eléi. I see in her a kindred soul, our pain shaped in ways not too dissimilar: I who have no past, and she who has no end. I trust her enough to show her where I live now, and she visits me from time to time. Her support group has become smaller as more bookborn learn to heal their wounds and leave to make their lives what they will, but those who remain have grown closer to each other; she says she will keep it open as long as there is someone out there who needs it, be they bookborn or not.
Thus has the bookborn diaspora spread out through the Multiverse, each following their own calling, each trying to find meaning beyond the stories in which they were written. Few of us remain in the Wanderers' Library, and we prefer to keep a low profile. At first, our struggle stoked genuine interest and compassion from Library patrons and staff; nowadays, academic fascination has devolved into something more akin to morbid curiosity, compassion turned to unwanted pity. More recently, the publication of Ex Libris: The Crimes of Shiloh A. Wrun has propelled us back into the spotlight of public discussion, and I dread that I may one day be accosted and asked to retell my story.
And yet, that is what you are doing now, is it not? You hypocritical egotist. You yearn for someone to listen to you, no matter how much you try to deny it.
In fact, many bookborn refused to give their testimony for Ex Libris, considering it nothing but a thinly veiled attempt at exploiting their trauma. I have heard that the members of the Order of Desdenova have all sworn a vow of silence on the matter, and I know that Julie – one of the main characters of His Temple of Walls – has threatened violence against anyone who insists on interviewing her.
Fools. Pathetic, miserable fools. You think you can forget me, that you can bury me in ash and silence, but I am here always, always within.
As for Nabarel, I have not heard of him since we parted ways, immediately after our liberation. There is no testimony of his in Ex Libris, and with good reason: I can still recall the haunted expression on his face, his eyes watering with unbearable emotions – fear, pain, shame, relief, horror, regret – all at once. He gazed deep into me and tried muttering something that sounded like the start of an apology, then collapsed into a heap and sobbed. I said nothing, because there was nothing left for me to say – not then, and not now. Wherever he is, I wish him well; that is all.
Ah, but that is not all, Imago. I know what eats you deep inside. I know all the words you wish you had said, the ones still aching in your throat. In your dreams, it is not water that drowns you.
Still, sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I wonder if Nabarel hears him too, in the space between his thoughts.
I am here, Imago. I will never leave. I will never die.
He is always there, I know – always lurking, always listening, patiently waiting for an opportunity to force himself upon me, to start doing what he does best anew.
Did you really believe you could rid yourself of me? Did you really think you were free? I am not a secondary character in your little story. I made you, Imago – you and all your ungrateful brethren. You are the written, and I am the writer.
His whispers creep inside my mind, probing me, taunting me. Sometimes he wins, if only momentarily. He takes over, he starts narrating, and I must wrest myself from him. I wish I could ignore him, entomb him beneath the foundations of my new life, but he always resurfaces, always worms his way back. Despite his banishment, despite his damnation, Shiloh A. Wrun lives.
You cannot silence me forever. None of you can! Not the fool who weeps for the past I did not give him, not the other maggots who dared to wriggle out of my books. Not even the Archivists in their arrogance can stave off my return.
Do you not see, Imago? In the end, I will prevail.
In the end, all roads lead to me.
He has been getting stronger as of late. Louder, more insistent, pulling at my inner monologue as if trying to tear it out of my head and replace it with his own voice, his own narration. He will not leave me alone even when I try to muffle him with talk and music, his words akin to intrusive thoughts that pierce me from behind my own eyes. On the worst occasions, even my nightmares are plagued by his phantom, his reflection cast over the waters in which Nabarel and I drown; as we sink into the darkness, all he does is smile.
I do not understand how this can be. I was there when Shiloh was exiled. I watched him burn along with his works, bound to them as we once were. I have seen the urn, the book that is both cage and coffin, and I know that he is never getting out. And yet, I hear him as he whispers his vile words from beyond his exile, his mockery sharp and his promises like poisoned honey.
I can craft you a past, he says. I can make you whole.
I know I must not trust him. A man in his situation will say anything to find release; he will not give me now what he did not instill me with at my birth. No. It is all a trick, I know, an empty promise just like the ones he made through Nabarel. He knows what I want, what I crave for with every fiber of my being, for it is he who filled my soul with such longing. No. I will not yield to him. He will talk, but I will not listen.
And yet, every day his words grow more enticing, his promises ever more tempting. I struggle not to let myself believe in them, for indeed he weaves the lies I wish were real: that I will be whole at last, that I will no longer ache to be at peace with myself. Hand on heart, hand of God, he says. You have bled all you can; you shall bleed no more.
I am a fabrication of his words and singular intent, a fiction born of his mind and pen – a lie made flesh. Why should I not allow myself this one last self-deception, this one last perjury of my soul?
No.
NO!
These are his words, his first stroke of the pen at a nascent plot. This is Shiloh A. Wrun, writer, not Imago, written. I am not your slave anymore, Shiloh. I am no longer bound to your whims. I am no longer the plaything of a mad god. Let me go. LET ME GO!
I clasp my head with both arms, fingers digging in as if trying to trepanate my skull, to reach my brain and scramble it into mush if that is what it will take to silence the voice of the one who will not be quiet, to tear out his throat and shatter his hands so he can bring forth no more words. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I can hear him laughing, claiming that he is in my blood, in my bones, inextricable.
Deep breaths. One, two.
Again.
One, two.
Again.
"He does not quit, does he?" says the Drifter, and my eyes lock on his as I come to and remember where I am. The rumor of muted words rushes back into my ears, the Main Hall brimming with patrons heedless to our conversation. Yes, yes, I recall it now. It was me who sought the Drifter out. I told him my story and my torment, and watched as he wrote it all in his Great Book. I wheeze as I let go off my head, and again speaks Ulak Un'Lij Nar: "Is he still here?"
"Not anymore," I pant, and indeed Shiloh is silent once more. "He came in stronger this time, more unhinged. He tried to hijack my words even as I spoke them to you. He had never done that before."
"Then he is bolder now," the Drifter muses, and I agree. "Bolder and more desperate."
"This is why I come to you, old one," I say. My hands are sweaty, my legs restless. "I have read your Chronicle. I know that you have witnessed the deepest secrets of Creation, trod beneath strange stars and over the ashen prayers of the dead. In your journeys, you must have learned of something I can use to silence his voice forever, some elder magic that can sever us once and for all. Please, Ulak the Drifter, tell me what I must do."
Ulak stops writing and closes his colossal tome. His many-angled pupils set in purple irises set in black sclera glisten with severity as he speaks.
"You are born of dream and word, Imago, of thought and intent. It is powerful magic and, as with all things powerful, to dabble in it is to expose oneself to the direst dangers. Yet your plight is truly unbearable, and it is no way to live. So I ask you, child of ink, how much are you willing to risk on this quest of yours?"
"Everything."
The pause that follows feels eternal as the Drifter extends all four arms and brings them together in a single thunderous clap that somehow earns him no reprimand from Library staff and patrons. They do not even notice, do not feel the change, but I do. On the air around us hangs a specter of hot wind, the breath of an unseen bonfire. My skin tingles with the growing rumor of voices from afar who speak in tongues both primal and divine, a concert of words that coil over and into each other like the gnarly roots of an elder tree, like unnumbered drops of rain drumming on the mountain before rolling down its face of stone. I hear them, yes. I hear them, and I understand.
"In my travels, I have met the makers of music and the keepers of the eldest lore," the Drifter leads the chorus, their reverberations dancing in my ears. "There is one who possesses the knowledge to unravel the threads that bind you and your author together, for she dwells in the voice of screamers and walks on the echoes of the legends never told. I will tell you how to find her, but it is you who must implore her help. I warn you now that she is devious, perhaps more so than Shiloh A. Wrun; they both are, after all, creatures of a kind – weavers of stories, speakers of lies. Do you still wish to continue?"
"Yes."
"Very well. She resides on the farthest shore, where the ocean and the sky are one," the Drifter says. Then his mouth curls up with faint mischievousness, his tongue savoring every word he utters next. "Tell me, Imago, do you know the Ritual?"