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The astral plane can be countless different things to countless different people able to access its depths. Some see nothing but the grey wastes, others a white room or so many rooms connected in a chain of hermetically sealed hallways. The truth is the dimension can be whatever someone wishes it to be.
The young woman caught in meditation half a world has come across the world in a state of incorporeal grace, perhaps dressed in the manner she should be, rather than what she is. A long claret jacket in leather fastens around her throat, the upstanding collar guarding the back of her neck. Black, streamlined garments shift between a Grecian chiton, the long, columnar black robe of Olympian gods, and the angular black robes of a monastic ascetic. Neither form slows her in the traverse of these rainbow columns braided together in geometric lines, the confusion of intersecting barriers and byways requiring a very specific path to walk unless someone will fall through the ground.
The astral holds the key to a locked door, and her path requires her to thread the labyrinth, to dance the mandala. It helps that her present state does not require her to remain on the ground, and her floating self stares down at the intersecting lines, devising the pattern necessary to make the next leap. Their space is somewhere in the high Himalayas, above Kathmandu and below the towering peaks. Here, along the high plateau country, answers to free her mind could be found.
*
It was a necessary part of his existence, the diligent work of sharpening his mind like a weapon that was forged to be impenetrable and unbreakable against outside threats. When his barest word could destroy, then none could be allowed to gain access to his mind. It was why Blackagar never slept, but only meditated. Deep in concentration, deep in control.
He was not one capable of travelling the astral plane but he was aware of it, it had been instructed to him since his youth for there were threats there that he had to guard against, to create barriers and layers of security. The physical body was trained but so was the mental; in fact it was why he had come to this region of the world for the past several years. To learn from the best available how to focus one's spirit and mind along with the body.
His fortress of the mind took the shape of a pyramid; not like that of Egypt or the Mayans but one which was different in lines and shape. Those that had seen Atlantis; or Attilan, would know it was of that architecture. Unfortunately very few of those that would know such existed.
The structure sat in a valley between two towering mountains. Where in the waking world the small village resided, here in the plane the area was under the walls of Blackagar's mind.
*
Movement through the astral is not linear. Follow the dance of the mandalas, shaping her fingers through the squared and circled glyphs, and one can end up from here to there — a relative distance of, say, a mile — in a step. Not for nothing are there medieval stories everywhere of seven league boots.
Wanda merely has to determine how dangerous the pathways are, full of their own hazards irrespective of the mountainous landscape. The line of orange radiance fires her forward, her ghostly outline painted an incandescent shade of the saffron robes beloved by certain Buddhist sects. Burning incense fills her senses, and when she stops, the ringing of prayer bowls and bells cascades around her. This marks the line between one faith and the forbidden, a sanctuary within a wilder realm.
Though no one emerges from the hallowed structure, she does not approach. Instead she turns, deliberate in her right angles, to perceive what else lies before her. And by all accounts a pyramid culture never rose this far into the mountains. Why ever would it? They have all the pointy peaks they need. Maybe in Harappa, or other civilizations strung along the Indus, but not this far north. Cause for curiosity, that.
Another succession of delicate hand gestures — mudra — bend the filaments of astral space to allow her to make another leap, this one carefully measured to get her there halfway. It helps to be divorced from one's body in situations like this.
The landing is a fast, hard thump after acceleration, and she goes bouncing three times over the 'ground', ending up a good deal closer than she wanted to. Streamers of mist rise off her diaphanous form, and forge into a crimson scarf around her neck.
*
The reverberation of a presence near him shakes Blackagar's mind and he feels it within him. The barest frown etches over his lips in the waking world as he has not had anyone disturb his location since the last attack. That had been defeated with ease and thus the arrival of a new entity where he could feel it was enough to pull him out of his location.
The mental projection of Blackagar is much different than how he looks the waking world. Where he is really dressed as a homeless sherpa, here in the boundaries of his mind he looks Kingly. He cannot travel the plane, confined to the space that his mind can occupy thus a much smaller square of presence where he reveals himself, arms folded over and looks out over into nothing.
«Who goes there.» The voice … mental voice at least … of the man calls out.
*
An attack this is not: at least not in the conventional sense of the term. Then again, very few walls keep out a determined mage, save those of their own devising. Wanda rises off the ground slightly, the amorphous quality of the realm spinning her hair around her like a girl caught underwater. She spreads her fingers out, twining a spell around herself to shield against threats physical and mental. A precaution speaking nothing but common sense. The pyramid warrants further inspection, the very oddness of its shape giving her a little pause.
Then the vibrations of thoughts rattle through her, splitting up and down those sharply aligned triangular faces, plunging into her. She takes in a breath. Hands touch together, another shape formed in sparks, trying to dial some of the volume back.
The query to hit her spins through the ether. She does not hesitate; one is defined purely by identity here. Shoulders tense slightly.
"The Scarlet Witch."
*
A frown etches across his features, a cant of Blackagar's head before he calls out into the void, beyond where he can see with his mind's eye. «I do not know that name. But I feel as if I know you.» There was a familiarity from the presence, one he could not place a finger on as the walls of the pyramid glimmer, looking to thicken and prepare themselves for protection.
The shifting of his outfit occurs, going from a display of royal court to one of armor and defense. It is hesitant however, not reactionary but rather preparatory.
*
Three years does not make a great difference. A few square meals can. She is no longer quite so thin and travel worn as she was, the fall of her hair a dark cloud around her face. The headband, though, that stands as the dead giveaway: shackled in glittering red and white lights at the temple, stars instead of garnets, but their shimmering view certainly resembles that of a girl asleep on a mountainside, a sorceress bringing down walls.
Three years, as she floats forward a step or two, not about to breach someone's safehaven. She is many things, incredibly stupid not being one of them. "Who are you?"
*
It takes a few moments for recognition to settle in, but once it does, a smile spreads over Blackagar's face both on his waking body and within the realm of mind. The walls of the pyramid melt away and he stands there, arms folded over his chest with an eyebrow quirked upwards. «Was it so terrible, that you forgot me already Wanda?» The playful tone, the amused expression. He doesn't even look a day older, maybe a bit more worn but it is a visage from the past standing there, smiling.
*
Time they have here, as the world moves so differently from other worlds, other places. The witch is content to wait, still absorbing the strange architecture that practically rings bells in her skull and awakens old memories of dust and stone. When the walls vanish to show a man prepared for war, her eyes narrow a fraction and she raises her hands in a graceful position, palms out to show no harm. What little that may be worth here.
Her glowing presence darkens into more substantiality and the chiton again shifts, back into the cut monastic robes wrapped around the waist by a belt, her claret leather coat still worn over rather than under. Ephemera responds to a bare touch of will, nothing more than that. She can be grateful perhaps for the small things. "You have decided to take up the practices of the pharaohs, have you? I forget none."
*
«I was told that the Pharaohs actually took up their practices from us.» Blackagar quips back towards Wanda as his clothing shifts to that of a simple man, more fitting for the location and a soft seat appears behind him that he sits down on comfortably. «What are you doing here? In my mind?» The tilt of his head has the questioning look behind it, that grin still present.
*
"Your people were about four thousand years ago, then?" Probably closer to five with the Egyptians, but the dynasties starting into hard-core building requires a bit more academic study than a revolutionary on the run ever received. She does not begrudge Blackagar his truth; the question is implicitly there.
The flowing contractions of time around them, slow as they are, drift her clothing and leave sparks of light wavering through her, proof of a candle or a source of energy somewhere. "I sought answers." Is this not a repetition of what they asked before? "Something happened, and a source of wisdom might lie in the mountains." Never mind she's near a thief to find it.
*
Blackagar shakes his head at Wanda when she mentions the time. «No.» The thought emanates through the area. «The Inhumans have been since around 40,000 years ago. Our culture is about that old as well.» The sobering time is thought soberly at Wanda as he motions to the seat next to him while she stands there.
«You were seeking answers the last time you crossed my path. What answers do you look for now that brings you into line with me again?»
*
Forty centuries and some, the span of human existence and beyond. The young woman absorbs this knowledge in a fugue of silence, though her eyes widen slightly. "Forget everything I thought I knew," she murmurs to none, the slightest tip of her head acknowledging the request and the double irony of her own statement. She follows a linear path towards Blackagar, but one that zigzags instead of goes straight to him. It still proves the more direct. It isn't necessary to sit normally but she adopts a kneeling position, albeit one that floats a foot off the ground.
Study of him comes through her glowing eyes, and here they are not their usual tawny shade but glowing pools of sunset, hammered garnet powder lit from below. "Nearly the same. Undiscovered answers preserved in history about a strange phenomenon."
*
A soft nod of his head comes as he looks at Wanda, smile fading just slightly. «That is the beauty of this place. The spine of the world. These mountains were old when we were old. There is much knowledge here but finding those who know it…» He trails off some then and let's his blue eyes, vibrant in the plane rest on her. «These answers you seek, are they in this realm or the realm of the real, the awake?»
*
The weight of the years rests even here, in the shifting mandala energy drawn beneath them. The triangles radiate out and conveyors twist along the circles, filling them with oscillating bars of energy.
Her fingers toy with the scarf, shaping the ends. "The knowledge is very old, I am sure. Nothing here is new, but recycled from the old." The discussion has evolved into a mystery tour of all that is mystical, primal, esoteric, thought-provoking, vague. Her pauses offer a primer in how one must choose their words carefully, even with a common language between them. Thought carves out a line in her features, a hardening of sorts. "Both. I search this way. Maybe then I will walk. But it is a long way and difficult for no gain."
*
«So even seeing an old friend counts as no gain?» Blackagar asks towards Wanda, teasing in his eyes as he tilts his expression at her. «You were not following a direct path the last time, did things turn out so terrible when you simply allowed yourself to walk, rather than run? To let yourself follow destiny than try to forge your own?»
*
"No," she comments to the second, rather than the first. Floating lends an unusual sense of peace and a modicum of restraint not normally found in young women adrift in mountains without an escort. "A twist of fate brought me. I cannot allow it to go unaddressed."
Her head tips. "But you have settled. Have you put an end to the problems with the others? The cult."
*
A slow shake of Blackagar's head «No. It is a problem that will persist until time itself ends. Where there is power, people will seek to claim it for themselves, to use to enslave the world. Thus diligence is required at all times.» He pauses, glances away from Wanda before returning his eyes to her. «And your journey. It has been well? You seem more… fretful than the last time fate brought us together.»
*
"You have come to peace with this. That you will always be at odds. Do you still hide from them?" The sweep of her hand encompasses a circle, and Wanda acknowledges the possibility that life travels in such patterns, such directions, even if they might wish it otherwise.
Her calm regard does not escape from his, and she meets Blackagar's gaze. Well, as much as she can: the burning orbs of her eyes are beautiful, in their alien glow, but give less contact than being normally positioned would. "I have gone far. Trapped for a time, released, and now paying for consequences of my decisions. Someone is suffering. I must end that. It is not an easy condition."
*
«People will always suffer. Often we blame the suffering of others on ourselves, not because we are the cause, but because we feel the guilt that they are suffering and we are not. Or are suffering in different ways.» Blackagar's thoughts echo about as he shrugs at Wanda, his own blue eyes countering her red as he looks steadily at her. «I have accepted that one cannot escape their destiny. What that means, I do not know for certain yet. I always knew you'd return though, that you would find me again.»
*
"This suffering is not tolerable or acceptable." The words formed in words are soft, but every one of them flares like a meteorite circling a planet and slamming down on its surface with resounding force. The impacts stud the silences between the conversation.
"You accept your destiny. What happens if someone changes that destiny?" Wanda does not look away from him, her lips pressed together as she considers him, the magnitude. "Would you accept it still, after I completely changed its direction? If I reached out and pointed you east when you had always known you were going north? And your fate should go north?"
*
«Is not the very essence of Destiny the fact that it is unchangeable? That the destination is set?» Blackagar holds out his hand towards Wanda, turning it up and taps a finger on his palm. «This is the destination, and there are many roads to this. My freedom is to choose the road. If I travel east, who is to say that I would not eventually end north? There are many things of my path I believe I would, that I will, change . But I also know that we will end where we should.»
*
In the space of a breath, she conjures a crackling line of brilliant fire that forms a kinetic tether, rippling and shifting through her fingertips as she elongates the cord. "Every life may be said to be fixed. Yet it is not. Outside forces can change its shape. The unchanging can be shifted, reshaped. It may never be intended you have children."
Wanda wraps her grip around the middle, form a loop, and pull it tight as the sparking light briefly turns a sharp green. Then the entire line above that shifts to a dark, rich shade of pine while the lower remains properly flamed. "Your destiny that would say you have none is changed. If it is iron clad then you could make whatever decision you like, but the decision at every crossroads will lead you here. Not to have them. Unless your destiny is rewritten. Unless the choice is made to something else. Now you will decide every time to take a course that should lead to this."
Her will collapses the rippling beam of light, sparks overflowing from her palms. "Sometimes changes happen that should not. Sometimes they must be undone. And so I seek the undoing."
*
«I see.» Blackagar says after long moments of contemplation. «At least I believe I do. You are not asking hypotheticals. You believe you have altered someone's destiny and now are seeking to undo such.» Reaching up he taps his lip, «Several thoughts come to mind. The first, what if you altering their destiny WAS their destiny?» He pauses to let that thought soak before he continues, «Further, what if once a destiny is altered it cannot be undone? It is the paradox similar to time travel. Where if one travels back in time, alters things, then attempts to go back and change it, it cannot be changed.» There's a pause, «Third. I do not remember you being this beautiful when we were in Tibet. Was I blind?»
*
"I do not believe. I know." The ironclad statement falls into the void, another salvo that cannot be taken back.
Her eyes flare cerise, but she keeps silent. It is the nature of their exchange, leaving time for a man to write his statements and being attentive, rather than rushed. Some things are not forgotten. Let him reach his conclusions in thought without interruption. Her fingers practice their forms, mudras performed without force to back them up. "The future changes because of the acts now. Undoing what is now will allow the future to follow a different course. I am not trying to correct a dam ten years ago. I want to give the river a different channel or remove the current blockage." This is as easy an image she can provide.
Her focus is such the compliment hits her, goes right through, carries on to Madras, and falls into the sea before she clues in. He might be blind, she evidently is deaf. "We were on a mountain in March. Of course I was bedraggled."
*
A sly grin touches his lips, acknowledging her words and sentiments. He even makes a playful smirk at the mention of the Mountains in March. «The best March in my memory.» Then he transitions back to the more serious conversation. «The future changes because of all acts up to this point, not merely these acts. A river does not carve a valley overnight. Your words are the correct ones. You have built a dam on a river, you believe this dam to be the altered destiny you have created. I disagree, I believe that you may have dammed the river, but that the strength of the current will eventually destroy the dam and return things to their proper place. What did you do to your brother?» it is a guess, but an educated one.
*
"Not when the dam is a change of state. The dam has to be undone for that change to be undone." Wanda raises her shoulders and stands, the transition sudden; one moment is she is down, the next she is up. Her black robes whisper beneath her red coat and she toys with the ends of the crimson scarf, weaving one through her fingers and then undoing it, wrapping it solidly around her wrist as the excess flows off the avian delicacy of her wrist bone. Endless sinuous motions fit together.
The guess is an obvious one. "He switched places with someone who tried to kill him. We are divided in life and death."
*
To be continued.