Lore/Story The Legend of the Thrice-Cursed (From the world of the Backways Bar)

This is a short story, told in fairy-tale style, that takes place in the world of the Backways Bar RP in the Forum Games section. Although it's supposed to be a myth, as said by the narrator, a character who players of the RP may already recognize, it does contain some hints at a greater picture, leaving it up to be interpreted by the reader.

Spoiler: The Legend of the Thrice-Cursed

Let me tell you a lie.

All stories are lies in the end. Even ones founded in truth are inherently biased, filled with countless tiny lies that we tell ourselves in order to maintain the appearance of the facade we live in. Lying has become a part of life, society itself a great hoax founded on the many fragile fronts that we attempt to maintain.

Lying, yes, is a part of life. And contrary to what many of you believe, it will always be.

You see, a lie is not a sin. After all, is a story an act of sin, fooling you into believing a lie for the duration of the time you spend reading it?
The truth is, lies are simply tools-they can be used for harm, for good, for a multitude of purposes and reasons. And even the most fragile of lies are still founded in truth; behind every lie, there is a person, a swirling vortex of hopes, experiences, and motives.

So, if you have the patience to hear a story, the humility to believe a lie, the will to seek a truth, then listen on. For, if you happen to be lucky, perhaps you’ll find truth there in the end.

Now, without any further words, let us begin.


Long ago, so very long ago, in a distant land in a distant time, there lived an alchemist.
The alchemist was dying. His experiments had rendered him frail and weak, as thin as a weathered branch and almost as prone to snapping in the wind.
Every morning, when he woke up, he would see Death looming behind him, cloaked and hooded, a faceless being with axes as sharp and cold as ice. Every morning, it seemed to inch ever closer, creeping towards him with its skeletal hands outstretched.

The alchemist knew his time was running out. He felt its touch upon his shoulders; saw its frozen gaze reflected in his own eyes. Soon, he knew he would be sent to the stars for his final judgement.
But the alchemist would not give up- at least not yet. He knew he would fight, struggling against Death with every ounce of life he still had. He would not die, not yet.


The alchemist first made his way to the foothills of the tallest mountain in the world. Struggling for breath and shivering in the cold, he began to climb, battered and wracked by howling gales of frigid wind. With his last few breaths, he crawled to the highest peak, collapsing to the snowy ground.
Here, so far up atop the mountain peak, the alchemist could touch the very sun itself. And so, his voice ragged and weak, he began to speak.
“Sun, oh, bright, radiant sun, giver of life and protector of all living things, hear my plea.
I have traveled for countless miles, a humble pilgrim driven by faith alone, to feel your light. All I ask of you now is a single boon-to live, blessed by your warmth, to the ends of eternity.”

“Pilgrim,” the sun spoke, its voice as warm as a thousand rays of light. “What you seek cannot be fulfilled so simply. Life must be paid for with life in turn, a great sacrifice made for a greater blessing.”

And pay the alchemist did. When he strode out into the sunlight, he stood tall and revitalized, freed from Death’s clutches as long as the sun shone in the sky. But life must be paid for with life in turn, and afterwards, no heart would ever beat in his chest again.


But the alchemist would not stop just there. As the sun slowly fell from the sky and the heavens turned dark, the alchemist felt Death’s grim touch once more. As life drained from his body, he entered a small clearing, stopping beside a clear pool of water.
There, reflected in the water’s surface, was the full moon, its image perfectly mirrored in the depths. Before Death could reach him, he began to speak again.
“Moon, oh, beautiful, elegant moon, weaver of dreams and maker of miracles, hear my plea. I have climbed mountains and crossed deserts, a humble pilgrim driven by faith alone, to witness your majesty. All I ask of you now is a single boon-to live, shielded by your gaze, to the ends of eternity.”

“Pilgrim,” the moon spoke, its voice as soft as a midnight breeze, “What you seek cannot be attained so easily. Only the highest of prices can pay for the greatest of miracles. For one heart to beat, another must stop.”

Once more, the price was paid. When the alchemist rose again, his chest held high, he stood tall and revitalized, freed from Death’s clutches for as long as the moon watched from the void above. But from then on, the flame of his soul would be forever dim.


But the alchemist had one more step to take. Across the world he traveled, crossing deep seas and blooming forests, desolate plains and lush valleys. Years passed, and after what seemed to him like an eternity, he finally arrived at a beautiful temple, its dome painted with a thousand bright stars.
The alchemist waited until nightfall, watching as the sun fell and the moon rose into the sky. At the day’s final hour, he entered the temple, standing beneath the star-speckled roof.
The stars had come alight with a brilliant radiance, their patterns trailing blazing streams of light across the dark roof. As the alchemist watched, the stars flickered into being one by one, forming blossoming nebulas and spiraling galaxies.
The alchemist had seen much on his travels-he had explored every corner of the earth. But this was simply something else-here, the very heavens themselves seemed to touch the mortal plane, as if the temple was an open doorway into the thousand worlds beyond.
Trying to calm himself, he bowed low to the floor and began to speak.

“Stars, oh, majestic, glittering stars, guardians of spirit and painters of skies, hear my plea. I have journeyed across the world, a humble pilgrim driven by faith alone, to bask in your brilliance. All I ask of you now is a single boon-to return, warded by your mantle, from the ends of eternity.”

“Pilgrim,” the stars spoke, their voices synchronized in perfect harmony. “What you seek cannot be attained so easily. A final price you must pay; for to escape death, one must first give themselves to it.

So the final price was paid. To the sun the alchemist gave his heart, to the moon his soul, and to the stars his body.

But the alchemist had not truly been defeated. With the power he had gained, he carved a new heart from stone, fashioned a new soul from flame, wrought a body from iron and ice. He had won-outmaneuvered the gods, cheated Death itself, escaped beyond the ends of eternity.

Listener, you may be content to stop here, satisfied at last. I do not blame you-a happy ending is what you’ve come here looking for, isn’t it? You know you want me to say it- that the alchemist lives contently for the rest of his life, having to never fear Death again.
And yet, a word of advice. There are few happy endings in reality-the truth is almost always far from what you want it to be.
You see, we all crave lies; one would much rather live a shallow, idealistic fantasy than confront harsh reality. It is our nature-we are purposefully ignorant of the horrors around us, our very beliefs censored by a barrier of our own making.
I do not blame you-lies are fundamental parts of life, after all-I have said so myself. But, if truth is what you really seek in the end, then let me advise you- do not stop now. Have patience, and let me tell you of the true end to this tale.


For the next few days, the alchemist reveled-celebrating his victory. No longer would Death stalk behind his heels, no longer would age drag him down, slowly weathering his body and mind. His new body had everything he wanted- a soul that burned, a heart in his chest, a body thrice as strong and a mind thrice as sharp. He had attained the very shape of perfection-a form crafted by the cosmos itself.
And yet, for some reason he could not fully explain, he was not satisfied.

His heart beat, yes, but it was the beat of rock upon metal, a hollow and empty pulse. His soul was warm-the warmth of a flame, which seemed to devour and gnaw at his conscience, craving constant sustenance to stay lit. And his body was cold-strong and resilient as steel and sharp as shards of ice-yet still bitter, heavy and frigid to the touch.

Days passed, and the alchemist felt himself grow ever more unsatisfied. He had gained power now-great power, unmatched in almost every regard, but still nothing compared to the passion of a human spirit.
Finally, the alchemist decided that it was simply unbearable. What was the point of eternal life, after all, if one lived as a husk, almost more object than man?

Setting out once more, the alchemist climbed the Mountain of the Sun in thirty strides, making his way to the peak once more.

“Sun,” he shouted into the sky. “I have made a great mistake, and now I recognize the error of my ways. Give me back my heart and let me live the rest of my life, mortal but content.”
But the sun would not speak. The alchemist waited atop the peak for three days, waiting desperately for a reply.
Finally, on the dawn of the fourth day, the sun rose again.

“You have made your choice,” the sun spoke, voice booming and resonant. “There is no turning back.”

The alchemist begged and pleaded, but the sun would not speak again. With a heavy heart, he descended the mountain as night began to fall.

It was midnight when the alchemist arrived at the Lake of the Moon. Bowing low to the ground, he gazed into the crystalline waters and began to speak once more.

“Moon,” he cried into the pool. “I have made a great mistake, and now, knowing the wrongs I have done, I confess and repent my sins. Give me back my soul and let me live the rest of my life, mortal but content.”
The moon did not reply. For three more days, the alchemist waited, the last vestiges of their hope slowly draining away.

Finally, on the dusk of the third day, the moon spoke again.

“You have made your choice,” the moon said, voice soft yet frigid. “There is no turning back.”

The alchemist beseeched and implored, but the moon would not say a thing again. His insides twisting with despair, he crossed the lake before the sun rose.

Two more days passed, and the alchemist finally returned to the Temple of the Stars. Falling on his knees before the ceiling, he began to plead, his tears falling like a shower of rain upon the floor.
But the stars would not show themselves. For three days once more he stayed, waiting ever more desperately beneath the magnificent roof.

And then, at midnight of the third day, the alchemist finally got a response.
A sudden, sharp coldness made its way across his body, causing him to shiver uncontrollably in response. The alchemist turned sharply, freezing in place as he saw the figure beside him.
Death stood behind him, clad in raven-feather robes. While one of its skeletal hands bore a jagged axe, raising it above its cowled head, the other rested on his shoulder, as cold to the touch as the essence of a winter storm.

“I won,” the alchemist said, his voice a mere whimper. “This cannot be. I won.”
Death finally began to speak, its voice empty and hollow, devoid of all pitch and emotion. “You did.”

“You have become me.”

 

based as always etherweaver

 

What an incredible story!
Really loved it. Great writing.