Titans of Chaos

I opened my mouth to make the obvious joke, but closed it again. He was just too happy.

On the third night, Vanity told me to take up my old office of Keeper of the Tales, and lead thegroup in the Telling once more: those dim fragments of memory we recalled from before ourcapture. The night became solemn. We each stood up before the fire and took our turns speaking.

It was strange, strange to hear those old words spoken, now, by young men and women, whichhad once been spoken only by children. Vanity's gold and silver dogs; Victor in space, making aworm out of falling rain; Quentin seeing a giant in the ice; Colin, urged on by his brothers,stealing a wolf pelt from the roofpole of his father's lodge, which held up the North Star. And me,remembering a pool like a globe larger than universes, in which the stars and worlds swam; andone small world was dark, a tiny world where time, death, and entropy were sovereign.

We spoke the words; we vowed not to forget. We promised each other we would escape and findour families again, our folk who loved us.

Colin said, "And we have not done it yet. We are still in prison. This world is not of our making."

Victor said, "I am not sure it is of their making, either. The Olympians seized control from anolder being: Saturn, Father Time. He made this place. And what he seized to remake is a fragmentof a larger, Uranian universe, a large volume, more disorganized."

"Disorganized, or free?" I asked.

Quentin said softly, "I think I understand my story now."

We all turned to look at him. He sat with his back to the fire, so that his face was a mass ofshadow, and red light beat against his shoulders and back. "Certain things were explained to meby mighty spirits, Principalities, Dominions, and Potentates from places lower than Heaven. Thechamber I remember in my father's house, the one filled with statues and chessmen, was myfather's wardrobe. What looked like chessmen to me were figurines of human beings, who arenaturally much smaller than my people. Those are bodies the Fallen can wear.

"The harp in his lap was the kantele, made of the bones of the leviathan and strung with the hairof fallen angels, who in grief and pride sheared their locks, as the ambrosial fragrance lingeringthere caused them the pain of memory.