Following an ordinary murder in the city, as the blue and red lights of police cruisers pierced the night, the strange-looking Illyrian and the Tailor pushed their way through the crowd. Just as they were leaving the crime scene, they spotted Chloe—a homicide detective clad in a beige skirt suit—marching resolutely toward the victim in her Adidas Superstars.
“Until I draw it, you won’t solve it, detective,” whispered the Tailor under her breath. Then, stepping into a narrow alley between the towering skyscrapers alongside the Illyrian, they vanished into the shadows.
The valet at the Black Swan’s Soul Hotel offered a nod of greeting to the Illyrian, who left it unreturned as he and the Tailor headed straight for the elevator. From the window of Room 707, they watched the city below, quietly sipping coffee from porcelain cups.
The telephone rang.
“…” The Tailor never spoke upon answering; she listened.
“Madam…” said the receptionist, hesitating. “There is a gentleman here who introduces himself as the Patternmaker. He wishes to speak with you.”
For a brief moment, the Tailor met the gaze of the Illyrian, who was watching her closely.
“Send him up,” she said into the receiver, her voice raspy and cracked.
Moments later, a knock came at the door. The Illyrian opened it.
A dwarf barely a meter tall stroked his grizzled mustache, which cascaded down to his belly.
“Well now… where might the Tailor be, Illyrian?” he asked, shoving past him and waddling into the room.
The Tailor rose slowly from the window sill. Gliding across the floor, her steps beneath her skirt made her appear as though she barely touched the ground as she drew near the Patternmaker.
With an extraordinarily elegant gesture, the Patternmaker brought the Tailor’s hand to his lips.
“I have been waiting for you for so long, my dear Tailor. I hope I may carry out the task you entrust to me with the dignity it deserves.”
“I have no doubt you will,” said the Tailor, her lips curving into a smile.
“Hmph…” grunted the Illyrian, only to be met with stern glares from both the Patternmaker and the Tailor.
“It seems the Illyrian still harbors a dislike for me.”
“He dislikes everyone, my old friend. Let us get down to business; I shall not keep you long. Muazzez—the dead horse of the stable—is currently a woman walking this earth. I am planning a surprise for her, one she shall find most exquisite. Step over to the window, if you please.”
Pushing the Illyrian aside once more, the dwarf approached the glass.
The Tailor gestured toward the expanse outside.
“You see that plot of land in this part of the city. I want you to construct Lake IYem there tonight. Muazzez was once very fond of that lake.”
The Patternmaker’s eyes welled with mist.
“I heard you found Biensen. So, it is Muazzez’s turn at last.”
The Illyrian smiled, his tone mockingly ominous: “Biensen was as free as a bird when he took flight. You, too, may be free if you so wish.”
“ILLYRIAN!” roared the Tailor. “I can set you free as well.”
“And that is precisely what I desire, Tailor. Set me free,” said the Illyrian. The longing for death in his heart was unmistakable in his eyes.
“Very well,” said the Patternmaker. “I suppose the fate of the entire stable has been embroidered.” He paused, awaiting the Illyrian’s agreement. After a brief yet heavy silence, he asked, “I wonder… whose divine choice is this death, Tailor?”
Before the Tailor could answer, the Illyrian cut in, “Chao’s, naturally.”
By morning, a shimmering lake had materialized in the heart of the city square, cradled by a thousand varieties of flora and fauna.
The Patternmaker had labored tirelessly through the night, crafting what was perhaps the finest masterpiece of his life.
As the sun crested the horizon, the three of them stood frozen before the immaculate beauty of IYem.
“The time has come,” said the Illyrian.
He and the Tailor glided away from the water’s edge.
“Did you tell him?” the Tailor asked the Illyrian.
“He does not know that both will perish. His mind is consumed only by Muazzez,” the Illyrian replied coolly.
Shortly thereafter, the Illyrian snatched Muazzez from her slumber and dragged her to the shores of the lake.
“Wake up, Muazzez,” he commanded.
Forcing her heavy eyelids open, Muazzez caught sight of the Illyrian; terror seized her, and she lunged backward to retreat. Her long black hair fell wild and disheveled across her face. She scrambled to pull herself upright, but her massive frame resisted.
“No,” she gasped. “Not now.”
“There is no such thing as ‘now,’ Muazzez.”
“But not now. You cannot be the one to kill me.”
“I am not going to kill you, Muazzez. Look—your dearest friend, Lake IYem. You used to confide your secrets to it. Now, you shall drown in them. I am merely lending your friend a helping hand. If you have one final secret to bestow upon it, speak it now.”
Nausea born of pure dread surged in Muazzez’s stomach. She lurched toward the lake. As she began to retch, thousands of venomous serpents poured from her mouth, spilling into the waters.
“Your habit of poisoning your friends remains quite intact, Muazzez,” remarked the Illyrian, slamming her head down into the freshly poisoned, lifeless waters of IYem.
Muazzez’s violent thrashing caused fractures to ripple through the lake’s very mold. As the water rapidly receded into nothingness, the Patternmaker’s eyes widened in horror.
“Stop!” he cried out. “IYem is the lake of beauty! You cannot kill it!”
When barely a finger’s depth of water remained in the lake bed, Muazzez’s convulsions ceased.
The Tailor rested a gentle hand on the Patternmaker’s shoulder.
“Do not grieve…” she whispered. “Every water that carries a secret is already dead.”
As the Illyrian stepped out of the basin, the life surrounding the lake began to wither and die at a frantic pace.
Chaotica ft. Lacivertiğnedenlik
ANARCHISTALES 