Knight of the Purple Void

James Abraham Carter

John Velox, a man whose hobbies encompassed the graceful clash of steel in historical fencing and the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, found himself inexplicably drawn into the shadowy embrace of a dusty antiques shop. As he had passed the shabby building, a thought had come into his mind, unbidden and seemingly external to his will, that within the dusty confines of the store, he would find the perfect frame for his prized possession: M.C. Escher's "Relativity," a signed print that mirrored the delightful absurdity he often found in life. And so strong had this certainty been that he had retraced his steps under the impetus of its strange influence, thus forgoing the movie he had planned to see.

The shop itself was something of a mystery. He had been past this spot many times and could have sworn that a dark alleyway, whose narrowness mirrored the dimensions of the enigmatic store, was all that had occupied the space. And as he wormed his way through the dusty bric-a-brac of bygone eras, puzzling over this enigma, something caught his eye. It was an object poking out from the surrounding clutter, its corner catching a shaft of morning light slanting through the fly-specked skylight of the building.

He moved to investigate and found tucked away in a forgotten corner, almost hidden by the tall form of a broken longcase clock, a picture frame that seemed to radiate an aura of indefinable otherworldliness. It was the right size, but its ornamentation was unlike anything he had ever seen - baroque flourishes intertwined with mystical cartouche symbols that felt ancient and powerful, a strange blend of art and arcane knowledge. Centered at the bottom, a chimeric mascaron, a horned mask frozen in a satyr's wicked grin, completed the unsettling masterpiece. John, captivated by its unique grotesqueness, bought it without a second thought.

As the proprietor of the establishment wrapped the frame in brown paper and tied it up with string, he grinned at John in a most unsettling manner, made worse by his goat-like face and beard, and his unnerving eyes that seemed to glitter with flecks of golden light.

“An interesting purchase,” observed the man in a sibilant voice that sent an unnatural chill down the young man’s spine. “And an interesting purchase can lead to even more interesting things.”

John hurriedly left the antiques store, inexplicably disturbed by the strange conversation and the proprietor’s sinister, enigmatic smile.

Back in his studio apartment, a creative chaos of easels, canvases, and other artistic paraphernalia, the print slipped into the frame as if it had always been meant to be there. As he hung it on the wall and stepped back to admire the artwork, the mascaron's eyes snapped open, fixing him with an unnerving stare. John jumped in wild alarm. He gasped in utter shock. This was incredible, impossible. But before he could react further to the completely unexpected and fantastic event, a blinding blue light erupted from the mask’s infernal eyes, engulfing him in its occult radiance. Then, darkness.

John awoke in a small, outlandish room whose walls, floor, and ceiling were constructed from something that looked like frosted glass inset with swirling silver arabesques. Before him stood a figure that seemed woven from shadows. Tall and impossibly thin, the dark being was draped in even blacker robes. And  embroidered upon its garment with silver thread were the same mystical symbols that decorated the frame. The being’s face, gaunt and sharp, mirrored the features of the mascaron, and its eyes those of the sinister proprietor of the shop where John had made his purchase.

"Welcome, John Velox," the being said, its voice a dry, sibilant rasp. "I am the Artificer."

John, a look of disbelief and horror stamped large on his face, scrambled to his feet and stumbled back against a vitreous wall, his heart pounding with disconcerting fear. He stared wildly and disbelievingly at the being. Had he gone mad? Was he the victim of some incredible hallucination? His eyes darted around the peculiar room. But no, everything was frighteningly real despite its abnormality; too real to be the fevered nightmare of a disturbed mind. Impossible as it seemed, he had been catapulted into some other realm by unknown and inexplicable forces. But for what strange purpose?

The Artificer, as if reading his mind, explained in a tone as cold as glacial ice: “The frame that you purchased,” it began, “is not merely a frame. It is a gateway that can take many different forms, a vessel, a sliver of a reality that predates the very universe you know. And I, as its creator and master, have chosen you for a game.

"Every century, I weave a tapestry of challenge, a quest to alleviate the ennui of eternity," the Artificer continued. "You, John, will participate. The rules are simple: You are to rescue a fair maiden, held captive by a monstrous evil. Refusal will mean instant oblivion. Participation, however, offers some hope of survival. What is your choice - a chance at life or certain death?”

John stared at the Artificer, his mind whirling from the utterly surreal situation in which he found himself. His overriding emotion, however, now that the initial shock of his jarring experiences had abated, was a surge of hot anger. He was a pawn, a plaything for a ruthless being beyond his comprehension, an entity inhabiting a world outside of known space and time. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that he had only one viable option. "It seems I have no choice but to accept," he said, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

The Artificer opened the room’s door, revealing a reality that defied logic. John found himself standing at the precipice of an Escher painting brought to life. The interior of a vast building constructed of crystalline material stretched out before his shocked gaze, its lucid walls, floors, and ceilings offering glimpses of the purple void of alien beauty in which the structure floated - an illimitable expanse of glowing mist in which fractal shapes of rainbow hues appeared and vanished in seemingly random patterns.

Seven staircases snaked through the immense structure, each defying gravity in its own bizarre way, creating a dizzying labyrinth where up became down and walls transformed into floors. At the top of each of the staircases, an archway gave access to huge courtyard gardens filled with impossible flora, plants shimmering in metallic hues of gold, silver, and burnished copper.

On each staircase, a suit of gleaming Gothic armor stood sentinel, animated by the Artificer's magic. The being drew forth a miniature sword and shield from the depths of its embroidered robe. Touching both lightly with a mystic gesture, the Artificer enlarged them into full-sized objects and presented each to John. "Your weapons," the being intoned. "Succeed, oh Knight of the Purple Void, and you shall live and be rewarded with the maiden’s hand in marriage. Fail, and grim death will be your fate."

John knew he was the plaything of a being with god-like powers. But he also knew Artificer was no god and therefore must have vulnerabilities. Hoping that with time he could discover them, the young man, his jaw set in a determined line and shoulders squared, gripped the sword, its weight surprisingly reassuring. He took his first step into the impossible reality, his heart pounding against his ribs. The quest had begun. But how would it end?

The first suit of armor was upon him in an instant, a whirlwind of steel and fury. John parried the blow, the clang of metal echoing through the crystalline structure. He fought with the precision and grace he had honed in his years of historical fencing, but the armor was relentless, animated by a force beyond his understanding. How could he kill something that was not even alive? A fierce blow crashed against his shield, driving him back. He stumbled and fell upon the stairs. The armor loomed over him, a glinting menace of unstoppable might. Its sword swept down in a fatal blow. John rolled desperately aside. Sparks flew as enemy steel crashed against the glassy treads.

John scrambled up, utterly desperate. He knew it was only a matter of time before his tireless, deathless opponent pierced his guard. Then he remembered: in tournaments, a knight could obtain victory by knocking the crest off his opponent’s helmet. With a prayer, his blade swept out in a flash of gleaming steel. The suit’s crest of peacock feathers went flying, and the animated armor vanished in a flash of dazzling light.

“Thank God,” he muttered as he paused to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.

Artificer unexpectedly materialized beside him, making him jump in sudden fright. “That was most entertaining,” the being enthused with rare emotion. “You are fatigued. But do not worry. You will find fountains in each of the courtyard gardens. Imbibe their glowing fluid. It will be as food and drink to you.”

John glared at the being. Artificer vanished, leaving only its tormenting laughter behind. The young man pressed on. He battled his way up the different staircases, each step a challenge to his sense of direction and his sanity. Gravity twisted and turned from one plane to another, forcing him to fight upside down, sideways, clinging to walls and ceilings that were once floors. He battled on with desperation, fatigue gnawing at his muscles, the surreal environment threatening to overwhelm his mind.

After what felt like an eternity of relentless combat, he finally reached the last of the courtyard gardens. Cautiously, he entered it, traversing a twisting path that threaded through the otherworldly foliage, whose hues were in many shades of gold, silver, and burnished copper. Shortly, he came upon a bubbling fountain whose liquid was not water but a strange fluid that glowed with a bluish radiance. Stumbling to the rim, John, on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, gazed speculatively at the arching jets of luminous liquid. Not trusting Artificer, he had avoided drinking from the fountains in the other gardens. But now, close to collapse, he decided to risk it and drank deeply of the weird fluid.

The glowing liquid, cool and soothing, tasted sweeter than ambrosia. Instantly, the fatigue, thirst, and hunger that had been assailing him vanished, to be replaced by a sense of satiation, strength, and well-being. Thus refreshed and greatly relieved, he pressed on, traversing the snaking path until he emerged into a circular open space in the heart of the enormous garden. Surrounding the circumference of the paved area were hundreds of exquisite statues of men and women, representing many cultures, ages, and worlds, so perfectly and wonderfully carved that they almost seemed alive.

But it was not these lifeless images that caught John’s eye, for there, chained to an ornamental pillar, was the Renaissence maiden of his fraught quest. Her nude beauty was more breathtaking than Cassiopeia’s, her eyes filled with fear and a desperate hope. John's heart leapt. He felt an instant connection to the woman, a surge of love that defied logic. He knew that this induced passion was part of Artificer's game. The feeling, however, was as real and as potent as it would have been if it had arisen naturally.

Molesting the Florentine Madonna was a monster out of nightmares, a grotesque parody of life, its form a twisted amalgamation of man and amphibian - a stark contrast to the girl's vivacious beauty. The thing was humanoid in form, but its head and skin were distinctly toad-like in appearance. The creature, sensing his presence, ceased its pawing of the weeping maiden. Turning, it roared at him with leonine ferocity, its gaping mouth revealing rows of shark-like teeth.

John, enraged by the creature’s torment of the helpless girl, answered the challenge with a war cry of his own. He charged, his sword flashing in the ethereal light, determined to rescue his love from her foul captor. The monster lunged, its claws tearing at him with deranged wildness, ripping away his shield. John stumbled and fell. He rolled under its slashing talons and leapt to his feet. The young man fought with a ferocity born of love and desperation, parrying, dodging, and striking with deadly precision, knocking aside the murderous horror’s grasping hands that sought to tear him limb from limb. The brutal struggle progressed with savage passion. John was drenched with sweat. His breathing came in ragged gasps. He had landed blow after blow on his monstrous opponent, but to no avail. Its skin was tougher than boiled leather, and his mightiest strokes inflicted but shallow cuts upon it.

The young man knew he was weakening fast. The sword seemed a heavy lump of lead rather than the well-balanced weapon that it was. Then realization bloomed. Only a fair game was truly entertaining - one where the outcome was not predetermined, and entertainment was what the Artificer desired. Therefore, the creature, like the animated suits of armor, must have some weakness. It came to him as the monster swiftly lunged.

John nimbly sidestepped the horror’s rush and brought his sword swiftly down upon the creature’s nape. The mighty blow, delivered with all his strength, sent the monster crashing face-first to the ground. John, panting hard, stood over his downed opponent. He had noticed how the creature blocked all his blows with its warty forearms, and correctly deduced that its other body parts were vulnerable to attack.

The horror, incredibly tough, twitched. It wasn’t dead - merely stunned. John raised his sword, poised to deliver a final devastating blow. But then he hesitated. Unlike the animated suits of armor, this creature was alive, sentient. The thing was down, completely helpless, the fight knocked entirely out of it. He could not bring himself to kill it in a needless act of bloodshed that resembled murder more than self-defense.

As John mercifully stayed his hand out of compassion, the maiden’s reaction was entirely different. She screamed, her voice imbued with scorching fury. "Kill it! If you love me kill it now!"

John turned to her, shocked by the ugliness of her words. “I do love you,” he replied in a troubled voice. “But I cannot go against what I feel is right.”

The maiden’s face contorted with rage at his defiance. Her chains dissolved like wind-blown smoke. Lunging towards him, her hands darted for his throat with murderous intent. Reacting instinctively, John reflexively raised his sword in defense, and the charging girl, unable to stop in time, was accidentally impaled on its point.

All-encompassing horror washed over John as the woman he loved fell to the ground, blood spurting from the deep chest wound inflicted by his hand. Dropping the sword, he collapsed to his knees, shaken by a whirlwind of self-accusation, a sob bursting from his trembling lips. He clutched the girl to him. “No,” he wailed in utter heartbreak and despair, feeling that with her death, a part of him had also passed away.

But then, an even greater shock: As the light faded from the maiden’s eyes, her body began to contort. Her beautiful features melted away, replaced by the gaunt, cruel face of the Artificer. In its blind rage, the being had quite forgotten that in human form it was as mortal as any creature of flesh and blood.

John dropped the body as if it were a burning coal. He leaped back in fright and collided with the monster, which had also risen to its feet. The young man spun away from the awful creature, heart racing. His eyes went wide as he stared at it in disbelief, for the horrid monster had also begun to undergo a strange metamorphosis. Its grotesque form softened, smoothed, and rearranged itself until the beautiful maiden stood before him, tears of joy streaming down her face.

"My love," she cried, her voice filled with relief as John leaped forward and lovingly embraced her, pressing her tightly to him, overjoyed by this spectacular miracle. "My name is Masina, formerly a handmaiden of Clarice, wife of Lorenzo de' Medici, de facto ruler of Florence," she said after a long and passionate kiss. “Look,” Masina continued, pointing: “You have not only saved me, but the others as well.”

John turned and was utterly amazed. All of the garden’s many statues had come to life, no longer stone but living, breathing flesh. Both men and women rushed eagerly into each other's arms - long-parted lovers rejoicing in their wondrous reunion.

“All of us are victims of the Artificer's cruel games,” explained Masina. “The creature reveled in the pain of others, twisting love into tragedy. I was to be the damsel in distress, you my heroic rescuer, only for you to kill me, believing I was the monster and not the maiden. And I, disguised as the monster, a puppet to the Artificer’s dark magic, unable to control my actions, sought your death as well.

“These others,” she elaborated, her sweeping hand encompassing the men and women who had once been lifeless sculptures, “were also trapped, pawns in the Artificer's cruel games, being brought back to life on its whim, and forced to experience love and loss in an endless cycle of torment. But now, with the creature’s death, these horrors have passed, the spell ensnaring all of us broken by its overdue demise.”

John met the affectionate gaze of Masina, and a flicker of hope ignited. Although both knew they were trapped in this surreal realm, they were nonetheless together. And they knew, with certainty, that this unity would be the bedrock of their strength. Along with the other survivors, they would face the challenges of this strange universe and forge a new society, no matter how threatening the cosmos around them might be, for unbeknownst to the Artificer, it had created something that was far stronger and more enduring than all its dark sorcery, and that is the love we can have for one another.

The End