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It's been a couple of months or less since I picked up the Malazan books and I found myself at the third quarter of Memories of Ice when Anaster is being taken down, or rather shaken off by Anomander Rake. Warning: I'm one of those who can't have enough of the Lord of Moon Spawn, so I felt the need to add to the story a short scene which might or might not have happened. The perspective I chose is one which the author has denied us, enamored fans, so I had to fix that a little
Also, warning #2: I'm no English native, so then, be indulgent, will you? it won't take long to read either.Here goes:
Moments after the First Child of The Dead Seed was taken away, Anomander Rake took his leave from the battlefield. He'd paused for a second longer, on his own, eyes on the spot the defeated Tenescowri leader had just occupied. Traces of blood on battered grass were all that remained and another, of visceral disgust.
Was there an undeniable truth to the man's words? A smeared, distorted mirror, mocking centuries of redemptive efforts?
Conversely, if the madness ridden youth had but voiced his own despair born out of sickness, a fake threat and a poor attempt at sensitizing the Tiste Andii, why would the impression persist?
He well knew the reason and there was little he could do about it. Persistence in all matters and in the most important of all, denied him feelings of disillusion – no – of hurt.
Eyes a dun color under lowered eyelids, the Lord of Moon Spawn turned around and walked in the dusty wake of his army. They carried Anaster in front, a silent procession. He would not follow though. His hand shifted in front of him, opening Kurald Galain. Darkness enveloped his persona and when he stepped on the other side, it was within his own tent.
Whiskeyjack, he thought, welcoming the gloom of the tent's interior, you are a flicker of light, a warm spark to resuscitate cold hearts like ours. Korlat, my friend, are you ready to weep? Thousands of years since I knew the meaning of tears, seeking to replace them by consistency and rightful demure. A purpose even.
Rake removed his gauntlets, setting them on the table before him. Then reached to his baldric, unstrapping Dragnipur from his back. The sword wheezed cold, swirling waves of power, even darker than the tent's confines, satiated for the moment, purring content. He placed it on the table, next to the gauntlets and filled his goblet with wine. Yet not even its dry sweetness could quell incipient brooding. Anomander sat on a high-backed campaign chair, releasing a sigh. The ripple of his Soletaken charge still lingered. Hard and savage, an aftertaste to drive away another, of momentary weakness. And surprise. A peripheral sensation in his left leg, the poison of Anaster's grip, surging from his desecrated flesh and complete madness of the soul to glorify necromantic sorcery at its finest.
We become what we destroy… Rake thought with a snarl, repeating the words of a cornered Anaster. A plague?... No, dear boy. Only destroying oneself while making it a way of living can justify such foul words. Yet know this, mortal: we, Tiste Andii, are made of the purest darkness. It is part of our fabric and you will never know it as we do. You are only a distorted shadow, a perverted and undignified usurper. And your mortality prevents you from being anything else. Yet you do not see – you are blinded by ambition. Follow more reachable goals instead. There is proof, admirable at that, of what humans can achieve. With that, Rake paused his reflection and closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. Yes. The boy realized the truth of his condition. His fear was real. Yet what was it he feared so much? What could be worse than death itself?
The Knight of Darkness smiled then, a tight smile. Granted, Dragnipur lay right before him, in quiet answer, only that Anaster's terror had been triggered by another nemesis which had stripped off his last semblance of control. His had been a sincere plea and the embrace given to the Eleint Soletaken as Anomander attacked was not entirely suicidal bravado. It contained hope.
Itkovian, The Son of Darkness thought. The one man capable of terrifying the First Child of The Dead Seed. Someone who could prove a powerful ally, if necessary. Yet not a willing one at that, not conscious of his role. Were the man to be purposefully seeking the Teneskowri leader, he would have been there, that very day, on the battlefield. Yet his presence was felt far to the north-east, within Capustan's broken walls, in silent lament and indomitable endurance.
Not very different from us, in this regard… Yet what is Itkovian's most terrible power? Alas, none we possess. Entirely human and perfectly humbling. Like Whiskeyjack's.
Rake drank the last of his wine and paused to stare inside his empty goblet.
There is light in hope and forgiveness and we do not walk such path. Only this time, the eater of his own flesh chooses to repudiate the highest gift of humanity, rather embracing its very opposite. But he has no alternative, does he? He knows of nothing else. Only true darkness is not a mortal's way. Attempts at achieving it can only bring destruction. And to twist a human soul in such manner is… an abomination, a challenge to us, directly. Oh, you feeble humans…
Anomander Rake took a deep breath and deposited the cup on the table. Then stood and donned Dragnipur once more, picked up his gauntlets in one hand and waved Kurald Galain open with the other. An instant later, he stepped on the polished stone of Moon Spawn's landing cave. Silanah rose her head in silent greeting.
This post has been edited by paradanmellow: 12 August 2015 - 11:18 AM
