Ch. 5: Chains of The False Father

MORROWMIRE EXCERPT — LUSTRAE FIREFLIES

Midnight lustrae fireflies—
Elegant to some, grotesque to others.
Truth flickers in their reaper eyes.
Feathers black and white—
To discern what is dead,
And what only pretended to live.
But behind the bars,
Can you still tell
What is... and what never was?

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

A wagon sat quietly beneath a curtain of soft green leaves, stationed at the edge of the dock.
Blue fungi clung to its frame—parasitic, ever-reaching.
From the dark water, a figure was hauled—half-submerged, rusted, and choked in lake-glass and algae. His body unmoving, but his eyes... they followed.
Tangled kelp and shattered coral lay beside him. Fibrous green strands, like the veins of a drowned god.
The poet knelt. With care and reverence, he lifted the metal man, as if the figure were both relic and ruin. He placed him in the wagon, brushed away the fungal growth, and chained a lantern to the frame.
Fireflies—blue and spectral—spiraled above them. Glow-dust shimmered through the whispering canopy. The wheels of the wagon sank into the sodden earth. Each push: slow, deliberate.
The poet—slender, and stronger than he appeared—moved with purpose. But the weight was more than metal.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

With each step, something sinister crept in.
Eyes.
Nokravis birds—raven-shaped, vulture-eyed—watched from the trees. Their wings twitched. Their stares burned.
And there was a sound.
Not quite wind. Not quite voice. A melody beneath perception, like a choir humming below the ears.
A requiem. A warning. Judgment.
Yellow orbs blinked among the berries. The forest itself seemed to hold breath.
The poet touched his face. Was he still alive? Or had the strings of this marionette world already stolen everything human from him?
He had chased humanity... had he surrendered it instead?
Sweat gathered beneath his hat, a slow drip down pale skin. Each drop: a baptism in guilt.
Behind him, the metal man stirred. Slow. Deliberate.
A hand gripped the wagon. Not in fear. In awareness.
The poet rushed to his side. "You're okay... you're okay." His voice was gentle, fragile.
The burnt figure rasped, "Where... am I?"
His voice was cracked leather.
The poet knelt lower. "Who are you?"
He hesitated. Then said, "This is Vireth. A vile world. Here, truth rots beneath perfume. Emotions are theater. Kindness is camouflage."
He paused. His voice softened with shame. He no longer believed in his own words.
Above, the Nokravis began to sing. A low harmony. Not music. Judgment.
He touched the metal man’s shoulder. “I’m Geppetto.” Then, quieter: “And you... are Cain.”
The name hung heavy. Cain blinked. Once. His eyes shifted to the fireflies, then back to Geppetto.
“You gave me this name?”
“It wasn’t mine to give. I am, in all honesty… a simple messenger.”
Cain sat upright. Muscles flexed beneath scorched plates. He looked at his hands. Alive.
Geppetto turned, waving away the fireflies. They dispersed.
The poet— a pale, sickly thing. Black veins near his eyes. White hair like drowned thread. A cracked leather hat hid his face.
He looked like a mistake sewn into the world. And everything around him felt... wrong.
And it was only the beginning.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Geppetto muttered as he grabbed the wagon handles again. Cain watched in silence. He didn’t close his eyes.
He couldn’t.
This world was playing with him— Childlike. Toylike.
The grim theatre dragged on— until they reached the shack.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

There— a fenced patch of exotic plants and crooked trees. The hut stood awkwardly, chimney tilted, its roof covered in dark stone. Wooden panels held the place together with sheer will.
Geppetto pulled the wagon against the fence, then limped away from the yolk like a beast finally unburdened.
He reached for Cain’s mechanical arm, reverent. Examining. Admiring.
Their eyes met. He pulled Cain’s arm close, their faces nearly touching.
He whispered: “She’s listening. She’s knowing. She’s divine.”
His breath was hot mist— Cain’s iron heart skipped. A malfunction. A bug.
He looked toward the shack. Then back.
"The future... your future..."
He glimpsed the Nokravis above.
“It lies beneath my efforts. Biblical in sense. Though... I am not your friend. Your family. Your—”
He pointed. But no word came. Only a shape.
Cain gripped the wagon and rose. He shoved Geppetto back.
Fell. The grass softened the impact.
Cain looked up. Geppetto glared down with unfamiliar hatred. His lips curled. Veins darkened.
The man Cain had once imagined— was so much weaker in reality.

—⊹ ⊹ ⊹—

Geppetto smiled. Tightly. Then grabbed Cain’s shoulder and shoved him forward.
Forced to walk—again. To learn.
Hatred was new. But Vireth was full of it. And Geppetto? He hated himself most.
Cain didn’t fight. The world was too off-balance. Violence would mean surrendering humanity–to break the scale.
The door was oversized, matching Geppetto’s malformed frame. He pushed Cain inside.
Hung up his jacket. Set down the lantern.
A makeshift living room sat left. A crude kitchen to the right. A shabby staircase in the middle.
But it was the drawings that stopped Cain.
They covered the walls. Hanging on wires. Crude. Detailed. Haunting.
Images of himself— burnt, mechanical, fragmented. Flowers. Lighters. Knives. Objects scattered around— Drawn and real.

Cain reached out.
“What is this? These drawings—”
Geppetto lunged. His hand to Cain’s throat.
“This is—”
He chuckled. A madman. Even he didn’t believe his own life.
“This is my life. My existence. My purpose.”
Cain pushed him away. For a second, Geppetto froze.
The window flooded— With eyes. Nokravis.
Geppetto shut the curtain quickly. Stopped. Stared at his arms.
Cain saw it. Among the drawings— a photo. A girl. Long black hair, braided. A white-and-black dress.
For a moment— curiosity returned.
“Who is this?”
Geppetto shoved Cain aside. Flattened the photo on the cabinet.
“You ask too many questions. Just follow me, human.”
He grabbed Cain’s arm. They climbed the stairs.
He stepped toward the right room. Blocked the door.
“Enter that room.”
Cain reached for the left handle.
It opened.

—⊹ ⊹ ⊹—

A makeshift desk rested against the right wall. Matching, a bed was against the left wall.

The drawings continued. Even more vivid.

Behind, a push on Cain’s iron shoulder.

Cain enters the room followed by Geppetto’s slender figure.

“Cain… go grab those two chairs over there.”

Cain picks up the chairs, drawings laying on the chairs fall on the floor. Then hands one of the chairs to Geppetto.

He places his chair facing Cain. Cain does the same to Geppetto.
Two chairs.
Two men.
One room.

“Sit.”

Cain stares, unknowing what sort of conversation will be birthed.

“Child… I mean–apologies–I meant… forget it. Just sit down.”

Cain sits–and from this angle, Geppetto is almost twice the height.

Almost frantically–
Geppetto starts nervously gnawing at his neck with his nails. Blood spills. A grotesque rash appears.

“How’s this supposed to go… I forgot. Where is the script?”

Geppetto’s arm unnaturally reaches the desk. He pats it down looking for a piece of paper.

He pulls out three pages.

“Tell me… human. Is this accurate?”

He hands it to Cain.

On the top:

“Dearest Vaeloria…”

Cain read the poison. His past.

Everything was scripted to the dot.

“How do you know—were you there?”

Geppetto looked at Cain with a horrific smile–

“I am the visionary—the madman.”

He stretched his arm trying to take it back. I jumped out of the chair, stepping backward. I continued reading.

Flower…
Lighter…
The porcelain doll…
It was all there. Until Cain read this sentence:

“The metamorphosis.
It worked?
Yes! Yes, I know what you are…”

Simply, Cain recited it.

Geppetto started scratching at his neck again. Repeating the same words:
“Heresy. Heresy. Heresy.”

He lunged out of the chair and reached for the papers.

—⊹ ⊹ ⊹—

“Geppetto—
What is the metamorphosis?”

He froze, no longer reaching out.

Then he started speaking:
“It’s that word—that concept. It hurts me. Headaches. The only vision—it’s heresy! To… her. You know—the porcelain doll. She’s the only one that truly is… human. Heavenly demeanor. You mustn’t ask anymore. No more. No more.”

Then a knock. Quiet but intrusive.

The door cried.

A little boy entered.

His face, his lower body—it was covered in metal—copper wires, inorganic material surrounding his body. Mimicking my own. His face was unrecognizable, his body mangled.

“Father… I’m hungry. It’s so dark.”

Geppetto flung his head back and screamed:

“Child… get back!”

Geppetto looked back at Cain.

“You know… I had only interest in you—to complete my work here. This boy… his body will become mine. A slave to my ideals. For her… dearest Vaeloria.”

He glanced at the window… the Nokravis blotted out the colors. Yellow blinking eyes.

“You’re not leaving… Cain. I won’t lose you. I won’t lose her, my Vaeloria.”

He grabbed a rope.

In the background–

“Father… what’s happening…?”

Geppetto responded.
“Getting you… humanity.”

Cain matched Geppetto’s eyes.

“The metamorphosis…”

Geppetto scratched his neck. Clenching his head.

“You are performing it on your own son.”

Geppetto screeched:
“It’s for the greater good, for his humanity. HE WANTED THIS.”

Cain responded in disgust; everything was so disgusting. This divinity robbed his world of life… and it seemed so biblical here.

“You robbed your son… of life. For a chance at divinity. The only one who wanted this… was you.”

He paused. Black blood ran down his neck.

Geppetto held a book in his hand, titled Manual of Metamorphosis. Written in his own blood.

He looked back at me.

“Xalume. On your planet it’s called ink, but here—ink is my blood. My blood is Xalume.”

He grabbed a knife off the desk.

“Do you recognize this? It’s a copy of the one that stabbed you in the stories.”

The melody of Nokravis bled into the room, signifying death.

Geppetto let out a laugh–

“It hurts so much—this headache. I just want it to end.”

He dropped the rope, the book.

He stretched his long arms with the knife between both of them. It was facing him.

With one movement, the knife sliced through the wind—finding rest in his heart.

The crucifix to his elegy. Ink splattered everywhere.

Writing everything in black blood.

Khal’ruun was accomplished.

The Nokravis broke the window, singing, and pecking at his corpse.

The atmosphere, the lights turned red.

And outside the window–

She, the porcelain doll, sat on her bench. White.

Her childlike frame held a book titled—

Pinocchio.

Then with swift urgency, the Nokravis flooded around everything. She disappeared.

And what was left of Geppetto was a statue.

And those harrowing words:

“Father… Father… Did I do something wrong? Where are you?
Speak to me…”

[End of Chapter]