Prologue

Let me tell you a story.

In another age, long ago, the world was ending, and almost all things upon it had been destroyed.

Amidst the chaos, an old man wandered alone, the last living human in the world. No matter where he went, he found nothing else alive, and he despaired. Then, wearied and near-death, he came upon a fig tree, and a smiling, beatific child sitting beneath it.

The child offered the old man rest for his exhaustion. It opened its mouth and the old man was sucked in, down into the child's stomach. There he saw the whole world, and all living things within it, stretching on forever.

For a hundred years he walked through the world in the stomach, his strength and love of life growing as it did. At the end of those hundred years, a mighty gust took him out of the child's stomach, through its mouth, and back out under the fig tree.

Having restored the old man, the child revealed its true divine nature as the being through which the lifeless world would be restored, and it bestowed enlightenment on him. The old man transcended time itself, and through the divine child the world and all life in it was made anew.

And that old man is said to wander the earth even now, never without action, be it subtle or grand.

The events that were to unfold had many beginnings. Some of it began several centuries ago, when the people of one of the worlds discovered the means to bend and shape matter to their whims. Some of it began many millennia before that, when civilisation truly began to spread across the worlds. A lot of it began a long time before the worlds, when time was not measured, and life of the lower natures would not exist for aeons. All of it began before the universe that was had exploded into being, and the infinite depths of space and time had truly started to progress in their own ways.

But the events that were to see it all end began deep in the forests of Yeniseysk, close to the Stony Tunguska river, on the morning of the 30th of June in 1908 C.E.

At least, it was the forests of a Yeniseysk in 1908 C.E.

It was a quarter of an hour after 7 o'clock, and the slowly rising sun tinged the sky yellow at the edges and covered the trees and forest floor in equal measure, enriching the verdant palette of the lands to a stark, quiet triumph of golden green. Little sound beyond the few animals that hunted or hid in the forests and the cracking and groaning of the ancient trees cleaved the air. Everything seemed almost painfully bright as the light absorbed by the treeline gave it all a vibrancy that only enhanced the peace of the place. It was a place few humans could walk through and think themselves in lands familiar or safe. It would seem, to some perhaps, as alien as if to walk upon another world entirely in its stillness.

And then, on that quiet summer morning, it was all blasted away.

Eyewitness accounts claimed that a great column of light, blinding as the sun and yet blue as a clear sky, lanced down from the heavens like the judgement of their god. A beautiful, monochromatic aurora, ephemeral and potent. As this shaft of light touched the horizon, though, the beauty became terrifying, and the potency became deadly.

For hundreds and hundreds of kilometres around, trees were knocked near flat and stripped of every scrap of branch and leaf, the Stony Tunguska river and others nearby were thrown up and spilled with great force, and earth for leagues was vaporised where it lay, or else became part of a great, momentary hurricane.

Wildlife and what few specimens of humanity might have existed in that barren place were killed, crushed by the pressure and friction, broiled and cooked by the immense heat, thrown far off and bashed into trees, dashed on rocks and impaled on splintered wood. Where life had once seemed still, now it was non-existent. The nearest centre of human life saw heat wash the land, glass shattering, and many poor souls thrown to the ground by the force exerted on them.

The sound of the blast was carried over thousands of kilometres, heard across much of Siberia and beyond. It might well have been the single loudest sound ever heard on Earth, and those who might have survived to see the effects of the blast and hear its terrible rancour wondered if it was the wrath of their god for the wickedness of the age. Even those not so enlightened to the myriad truths of the gods might have supposed that the world was ending.

In this instance, it truly was.

In this event, the great cataclysm that occurred there was wrought by schemes of creatures beyond all mortal knowledge, and it was the beginning of the end for everything, everywhere. Only in this world, though. In the one you know, the cataclysm happened quite differently, and was the product of no god or demon, no scheme or plan of higher beings. By the nature of time being both amorphous and yet fixed, the Tunguska event would happen by pure chance, and because it had to.

Even if the event of this other world did have designs guiding its happening, no-one would have lived to see the aftermath. No-one would have seen what was at the epicentre of the great explosion, for while the event had all the characteristics of a meteor striking the surface of Earth, no crater existed, nor were fragments of such a celestial body to be found at the eye of the storm.

What did appear there, for only long enough for the blast to peter out, were a large circle of complex, glowing runes, shapes and texts, blending with the ground before flaking away like dust, and the figure of something like a man, but much more terrible to behold. The figure carried only the vaguest human shape, where all else about it twisted in forms insane and alien and hostile to the delicate senses of true men.

This horrifying, eldritch thing hovered above the epicentre, surveying the destruction wrought about it. For just a moment, it reflected. For just a moment, it savoured. It knew that it had won; that nothing else would stop what needed to happen.

And then it was gone, in a cessation of existence in that singular time and place, as it went on to times and places other, and sought to see all the universe die.

For a short while, there was stillness. The echoes of the explosion, and the sounds of the aftermath, as trees creaked and cracked, and soil and water hissed and whined; all faded away and became silent once again.

It took a few more minutes, and then the peace was broken again, though nowhere near as cataclysmically as the initial explosion. At the very centre, where the terrible creature and the circle of runes had been and gone, there was a rumbling and shaking of the ground, and as the freshly disturbed earth split open, an edifice of strange proportions and stranger substance rose from it. No architecture of Earth matched it, and it spoke of makers entirely alien to that tiny planet.

On one side of this edifice, a small section of wall melted away like wax, and from the newly opened archway stepped two more figures, both completely human in appearance and proportion, if notable in their attire and gait. They wore robes of grey, which seemed to drink the light around them and ripple in imperceptibly differing shades.

One of the newcomers stood tall as a man, his skin dark and soft, his hair and beard groomed, his eyes bright. The other had the stature of an adolescent, and his skin was pale yet full of colour, his hair long and unkempt. They stepped out onto the warm soil about them, felt the hot air on their skin, and looked at one another. Both smiled, one warmly, the other grimly. A conversation passed between them, full of hope and determination. Their plans would not fail, and all life in the universe could yet be saved. Then they looked ahead, and began their journey together, one step at a time, to make sure the evil that might yet come to pass was stopped.

As they left, the unnatural structure they had emerged from slithered back under the surface of the earth, and the soil that had been kicked up by its intrusion rolled its way back over the breach to cover it, as if tilled back by the hand of a god.

And once again, everything became quiet. The world turned ever onwards.

Something else began on another world entirely, on the morning of the 30th of June in 1902, in a version of the vast Eastern Desert.

It was a quarter of an hour after 7 o'clock, and the slowly rising sun tinged the sky yellow at the edges and covered the endless dunes and planes and the sand that filled the wind. Anyone caught in the already growing heat would suffer the sand to tear their skin, ruin their eyes and fill their mouths. The cloudless sky let the rising sun cover the dunes and light them up, imbuing them with a blinding, fiery radiance. Little else moved out in the desert, save for tiny, flitting creatures hiding from the coming heat until everything grew cool and hunting could begin. It was a place few humans could walk through and think themselves in lands familiar or safe. It would seem, to some perhaps, as alien as if to walk upon another world entirely in its stillness.

And then, on that quiet summer morning, the desert was disturbed.

No human eyes were there to witness what happened at the site. Once, a great kingdom of men had existed where the disturbance took place, but it had long been lost to a great calamity, and its fall had long passed into legend.

Eyewitness accounts from the neighbouring land of Amestris claimed that a great blossom of light, blinding as the sun and yet blue as a clear sky, appeared on the horizon like the judgement of a god. A beautiful, monochromatic aurora, ephemeral and potent. As this light reached its peak, though, the beauty faded away, and the potency became frightening.

Deep in the desert, amongst the mighty dunes, a giant column of sand, hundreds of metres wide, erupted into the air with terrible force. Any small creatures hiding buried in that place or who had chanced to skim across the slowly baking desert surface were carried with the cloud, shredded by the sand, crushed by pressure and battered by the force exerted on their tiny bodies. The sand cloud was propelled high into the air, high enough that it could be seen for kilometres around.

Across eastern Amestris, something of the great column was observed and commented on, but not enough to truly understand what it was. In recently war-torn Ishval, many of the native people, scared, angry, and desperate, wondered if it was the wrath of their god for the wickedness of the age. One casual Amestrian observer made a dark joke about how the world was ending.

In this instance, it truly was.

It was only in this version of this world that the cataclysm that occurred would do so. In the world you might know, this cataclysm never happened, and it only occurred in this world because it had been wrought by the schemes of creatures beyond all mortal knowledge. By the nature of time being both amorphous and yet fixed, the cataclysm of the desert would happen by the designs of others, and because it had to.

Since here there was no human life to witness the event, no-one was around to also see the aftermath. No-one would have seen what was at the epicentre of the great explosion, for while the event had all the characteristics of a mighty tumult from beneath the surface of Earth, no pit existed, nor were fragments of any such thing that could cause it to be found at the eye of the storm.

What did appear there, for only long enough for the blast to peter out, was a large circle of complex, glowing runes, shapes and texts, blending with the ground before flaking away like the immeasurable sand of the desert. It appeared in a clearing created in the tumult, amidst what little rubble remained of the ancient ruined city, and it was obscured from any potential observers by the newly created sandstorm.

For a short while, there was stillness. The sand filling the air flew on into the desert all around. The echoes of the blast, the dull thuds and cracks as stone debris, blasted rubble and little shards of newly molten glass landed among the dunes and rubble; all faded away, and the ever-present low howl of the wind reigned supreme once again.

It took a few more minutes, and then the peace was broken again, though nowhere near as spectacularly as the initial eruption. At the very centre, where the circle of runes had been and gone, there was a rumbling and shaking of the ground, and as the freshly disturbed sand split open, an edifice of strange proportions and stranger substance rose from it. No architecture of the world matched it, and it spoke of makers entirely alien to that tiny planet.

On one side of this edifice, a small section of wall melted away like wax, and from the newly opened archway stepped a figure, human in appearance and proportion, if notable in her attire and gait. She wore robes of grey, which seemed to drink the light around her and ripple in imperceptibly differing shades.

The newcomer was of middling height, her skin pale yet full of colour, her hair tied back yet still messy, her eyes sharp. She stepped out onto the baked sand about her, felt the arid air on her skin, and looked out at the desert before her. She smiled contentedly. Her plans would not fail, and everything would be set right, and as best as it all could be. Then she looked ahead, and began her journey, one step at a time, to make sure those that could hinder her plans might yet be stopped.

As she left, the unnatural structure she had emerged from slithered back under the surface of the desert, and the sand that had been kicked up by its intrusion rolled its way back over the breach to cover it, as if tilled back by the hand of a god.

And once again, everything became quiet. The world turned ever onwards.

Author's Notes

EDIT 2/10/18: Have made a slight edit to the initial blurb's ending.

Well, this is surreal. It's been a long, long time since I posted any stories to this site, and for a long time I thought I never would again. And then I watched all of FMA 2003 and Brotherhood, and the movies Conqueror of Shamballa and Sacred Star of Milos over two months, and an old writing itch came back and never quite went away. So, here we are, with this story.

I hope that you, the reader, enjoy this initial cryptic bit of narrative, and I hope it intrigues you enough to want to read more. A fair warning, though. Updates for this story, such as they will be, are going to come very, very slowly. I am not a quick writer and I'm always triple-checking -everything- I write from grammar and spelling to whether one plot idea is better over another, etc. Basically, it will most likely be a long time before this story sees completion, if it ever does. I hope that I do pull it off, and that any and all readers enjoy it.

Moving on to some trivia about the chapter now:

The initial story being told, about the old man and the child and the fig tree, is an abbreviated version of a story from Hindu scripture, specifically the story of Markandeya. The version I have written here only lightly touches upon the intended philosophy and meaning of the story, since my understanding of Hinduism is generalised and comes from a non-religious point of view. It goes without saying that the story has some meaning to the overall plot of this fanfic, but what that meaning is will be up to you to interpret as the story progresses. If you're curious, there are a few links you can find through a search engine that show and analyse the story in its original context.

For those of you who might not know, the Tunguska event is a real-life historical event that happened roughly as I described it here, but it has never been conclusively proved what caused it to occur, and it most likely never will be. It's a popular event to use in certain works of fiction, since it's not only a great mystery, but also a genuinely very destructive event, and was indeed the cause of one of the loudest explosions heard on Earth, as far as I know.