Chapter 18 — The Historian in the Rift

“Father…”

The word broke from Yusuf before he could swallow it.
The man's face was recognizable—more deeply etched than memory, but still the same severe brow, still those eyes which had once derided Yusuf's ideals as boyish. He was an older man now, a bulkier man, weathered by the centuries of gales. And yet… completely real.
But the faceless child tugged at his sleeve with extreme urgency.
"That's not him."
The denial cut through the storm, but Yusuf’s chest tightened. "It's him—I know it's him—The man raised his Codex. Its cover glowed black-red, its pages aflame as it turned. Shadows submitted to him, soothing their lunacy in order to revolve around like captive beasts. When he spoke, his voice was split in two—half man, half scratching stone.
You should not be here, Yusuf.
The sound of his name struck like a hammer.
Yusuf took a step forward, his hand cradling Rae's piece it sliced into his palm. "You're alive. You're here. All this time."
The man's eyes fluttered. Recognition reassured him for a moment. Then the storm raged worse, and his face contorted in a hard mask. Alive? No. I am what is left. And if you stay here, you shall similarly so be.
The faceless child pushed Yusuf out of the way and obstructed their path. Its voice was rough—not soothing this time, but indignant.
"You're not his father. You're what the Convergence made out of him."
Shadow-creatures shrieked in seeming assent to the child's pronouncement. He raised his Codex still further, its fibers whiplashing in every direction. These snagged in shreds of the shattered world, dragging it into shape, building a rough throne around his feet.
You'd like to save?" he raged. "Save what?
And the Convergence complied. Memory shards fell in a shower of meteors, each a blazing piece of the past—half-destroyed cities, shattered faces, forgotten names. They slammed into the earth around Yusuf, each one threatening to bury him beneath what had been forgotten. The faceless child shrieked in protest at the commotion: Don't look at him, Yusuf! You'll bind yourself up as you bound it up! But Yusuf was unable not to look. Because in this vortex of broken remembrances, his father's voice—whispers, submerged—was calling his name.