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It's the Little Mercies

Log B.C 198 – His Promise´s Word

Collection: Legacy of a Station

Type: Will-transmitted Mirage

Begin Telepathic Transfer:

An expected crowd of Caretakers has taken their seats in His Love´s Royal Regalia. The theater is open aired, the sweet aromas and gentle night breeze of Speculmnis blanket the seated. The lights and sounds of ever raucous carnival are barred from the attendee´s minds, as soft stars shine velvet upon the stage.

Outside, two carriages follow the Matron´s call through tightly packed polished streets, pulled toward a night to remember by noble beasts sculpted in glass. Careful are the coachmen to avoid drunken pilgrims and frisky Children, as the Father´s faithful have their fill, not of substance or drink, but of full bodied Will.

For the first of this procession, a mahogany-carved window swings open. A Dath´Haram raven, whose smile and jewelry shine by act of jealous stars, sits on the frame of this window, intoxicated by the spirits in the air and in her heart.

Joyous laughter erupts from within, as the celebrating faithful cheer for the raven perched atop racing gold. Flowers, confessions of love, letters of admiration, trinkets of all shapes and forms are thrown by exultant faithful, hungry for the attention of a Lord. Inviting her to join in the revelry of meat, in the revelry of drink, in the revelry of vim.

And yet the raven closes her eyes, her laughter and cheering announcing the location of the honored caravan to those who waited to add to her choir. Inside the carriage, beside the extroverted raven, sat a scarred man, his smile subdued in contrast to his beloved. He would never tire of her voice, he would never tire of her excitement. To His Gauntlet he would shackle those who would dare see this end, who would go after his blooming rose, alone in a desert of steel.

And in moon-bathed night, the procession races. Across wine covered boulevards, over crystal carved bridges, as the carnival of Speculmnis walks behind them in thousands of legs, and sometimes hands.

And lo, they arrive. At the expected hour, they disembark. The eye catching raven who weaves the darkness of loss into the light of tomorrow, the well dressed man who showed a God His folly, and she whose whose unyielding mask hid secrets too big for this small universe.

In quickened paces the Lords ascend palatial stairs, as crimson gates swing open and well mannered ushers point to their seats.

They ascend to the coveted box of the Royal Regalia, as applause breaks from the crowds below. Five seats lay in wait, and yet only three would satisfy their occupants.

And once the three sat down, the curtain slowly recedes, but is suddenly stopped as an image steps out. Polished shoes, happy to announce their fulgor in the moonlight; small gloves covering the instruments of eminence which would never cease to conduct; a sharp coat crowned by carmine bow, pinned to its breast, a small brooch cut from onyx.

At this, the raven´s smile widens. That brooch was a gift, and he had remembered it.

The King of the Carnival, the Maître du Rire, the Matron´s Bâton.

Master Preximius.

"Welcome respected servants of the Father and exalted guests of honor!" "Today marks the beginning of Human culture week, where we celebrate this most fascinating and rich of species. The latest to be gifted to our ever growing family under the Mirthful Father!"

The rich voice exudes from fine tuned vocal chords, as the Master accents himself in the Human tongue of a Land of Nobles and Wine. Pillars of inviting moonlight shower from the opened roof, marking the Human members of the audience, second of the Lords included.

"Applause! Applause for them who we honor today and forevermore!" Gloved hands invite the audience. The thunder of cheering, the lightning of applause, the adoration of comrades and lovers. The Master´s act has already commenced.

Pearly gloves lift. The act transitions.

"Now, some of you are probably asking yourselves three questions: Why is this Sectoid so handsome, does not invade the privacy of my mind when he speaks, and his voice does not make me want to commit ritualistic suicide?"

The Master extracts laughter. The crowd erupts in joy. The raven cannot help herself, as the rhythmic sound escapes her mouth, the scarred immortal allows himself a smile, to ease, as relaxation is foreign to him.

The masked one tries to rest. She tries to lose herself in the event, in the enjoyment of life that the Dath´Haram sinks in so effortlessly. She had always thought that if the raven did not create an Order, her calling would have been as a Weaver.

And yet the rapture of laughter does not silence the voices. The burden. The responsibility.

She is trusted to know.

She wishes she could forget.

But if not her, then who else?

The roots. The leaves. The branches. Always visible at the corners of her eyes.

Growing closer each day.

"Well folks, two main reasons. First, it would not be fair for our future generations to not be able to hear our joyous words on this momentous occasion. The second being that I suffered enough learning Human languages for this, so you will share the pain of hearing my terrible accent! Too bad that our fun-hating Overseers are not present today, for who knows? Perhaps I could do the impossible and get some of the grumpy sages to crack a smile!"

The Master feeds on the laughter, as some Caretakers begin to clap, helpless in the wave of wit which they drink from the wellspring of his mind. Preximius smiles, his azure eyes burn bright.

And yet, underneath the smile, underneath the act, there is fire.

Fire under the Master's grinning mask.

For he hates his species.

He hates the potential they cast into the depths which he now embodies.

He hates their steel.

He hates their machines.

He hates their emptiness.

He will be better.

He is better.

For he is more than they could ever imagine.

More than they can ever be without Him.

His eyes burn brighter.

"I am glad that we are having fun already! But now, it is about time that we began our show. Brace yourselves for what we offer at the Regalia tonight!"

The curtains behind the Master resume their long awaited opening. The Orchestra is assembled, and expectation beats heavily inside a thousand chests. Their tastes in garments known to be hand picked by their conductor. Instruments at their hands well crafted from the bodies of the lucky ascended.

Strikingly, the lead violinist´s instrument is lodged down the throat of a well-dressed, but hollow, infant carcass. Human, of course, as is appropriate for the occasion.

From thin air, the young one´s spirit is summoned from the Mind Cosmos. Dressed in white and gold, feathery wings sprouting from his back, he smiles at the Master, who beckons with a gloved hand.

The Master is pleased at the surprise which he can sample from the audience. He thanks his Lady who watches from Her seat in the Moon, as more young ones emerge from the realm which overlays ours.

Each child gracefully flies to their assigned musician, smiles in their faces and innocent eyes fixed first to their timely vessels which will be given cultured use. Then their gaze turns to the audience which has collectively held its breath for seconds which stretch into years.

Preximius steps into his assigned place. He inserts a gloved hand into his right pocket, and pulls out a small case. A smooth, thin white baton is taken from the case. The carving of bone is an art few appreciate as well as him. Phalanges, his preferred pieces to work.

A woman steps out of the air, submerged in the lavender rivers of the Mind Cosmos. Alluring eyes stare into the Master´s, as her black hair flows, unconcerned with gravity. As carnal and eternal lips connect, she cups his cheeks with two hands.

Her left is missing two fingers. A surgeon's knife borrowed the appendages.

The embrace ends. Some within the audience visibly faint from the release of emotion. The woman winks at the Master, for future delights will await the deep night, and steps into the air. Her form gone as easily as it arrived.

Invigorated, the Master grasps the gifted baton, and commences his craft.

The Orchestra begins to play a macabre dance, authored by the long departed mind of a fellow artist born of the land of Nobles and Wine.

The children clad in light join in added chorus. Their voices impeccable, as if they boasted decades of experience under ephemeral belts.

The haunting liturgy continues, as the Master´s head begins to pulsate in crystalline Will. The Master weaves a sculpture in glass, to the delight of the Matron who watches from the Moon.

His mind splits into halves. One continues conducting, the other brings the sculpture to life. The black haired woman returns, dressed in the mantle of night. Her three fingered hand grasps the sculpture´s, and the pair ascend to the skies.

Outside the Regalia, the Carnival comes to a halt, as the drunken and the festive stop to see the pair which ornaments the sky of Speculmnis.

And in that cloudless night, under blinking curious stars, under the gaze of the Matron who watched from the Moon, the couple would waltz.

Intimately, they waltzed. Longingly, they waltzed. They waltzed with the closeness of marriage. They waltzed for the hearts of the thousands who watched from the ground. They waltzed for a future where spectacle was not a luxury the few could partake in, but the norm all could expect and demand.

The Matron shed tears. Droplets of nectar which fell from the Moon. They landed on the stage, and hundreds of spectral dancers emerged from the air.

And they would fly to the couple. And they would grasp their hands. And in silent understanding they would join in their intimacy.

For under the Father all shared the same right to love.

And as the Matron weaves comets from parts of the Moon, and as these celestial visitors streak the dark sky as the army of dancers made the night theirs, the raven grasps the man´s hand and lays her head on his shoulder.

And in that warm bosom she rested, as many in the audience confessed long buried feelings and truths to one another.

And the Master´s split mind partook of this love. Partook of this perfect moment which the burdens of tomorrow would not sully.

For under the Father, to love was to live.

The song ended. For it had to end at some point, even though none wanted it so.

But the night was far from over, and the performance continued.

The Master descends from his podium and bows. Applause, tears, powerful states of mind which words cannot describe would be his reward.

And the Master eats, the Master savors.

He could not stop himself from this.

And he does not want to.

But now, he would have a feast for his audience as well.

"We thank you with our deepest gratitude for your presence, and hope to please your spirits with future showings of art! "However, before you leave for today, we offer you one last delight".

The Master utters even more intriguing words.

"What else can he do?"

"What more can he give us?"

Thoughts swirl amongst the audience.

And the Master samples.

Preximius snaps his fingers, and two of his musicians retreat behind the stage. They return with a dinner table. The dish, a Human of course.

Upon observing the state of the food, tightly bound and gagged, the Master feigns shock and disgust.

"I should feed you to the Children you incompetent buffoons! Look at the state of our prestigious guest! Oh this cannot be, this will not do at all! Speak Mister, tells us what we can do for you!"

The Master extracts laughter. He eats, he tastes. The audience is willing to give. Willing to feel his salivation.

"Please! Please just let me go! You cannot do this! I have a family, I have a daughter!"

The food supplicates. The food appeals to morality which is alien to the ascended. The food does not understand the privilege it is about to be granted.

"Oh, I am afraid I cannot help you with that. However, I think I know what will free you from all this dreadful stress that you are living through. And do not worry about your family, they will be saved, just as you will today! You should rejoice at your fortunes!".

The Master gags the food once again. The Master signals the two musicians and they retreat backstage once again.

The food weeps silently. The Master notices, and gently pats the food´s head. He begins to sing to it, as if trying to lull it to sleep. The audience erupts in wild laughter.

The Master eats. The Master samples.

"What say you, noble audience? Do we grant this mortal salvation today?"

The audience overwhelmingly chants in agreement.

"Well, why don't we enjoy ourselves doing it?

The musicians return, a glass cage on their hands. Inside, a creature born from dreams of the Artist. A Child commissioned by the Master. A Connoisseur, which will taste the entrée before all can bite.

The Child is let out of the cage, and scurries quickly on the floor. It crawls over the food.

The audience salivates, for they know the delicacy which awaits.

The food panics. It wiggles and struggles uselessly against the bindings. It breathes heavily and quickly. The refined taster reaches its head, and samples. Two pronged tendrils pierce a pesky skull which keeps the audience from their meal.

The taster rolls its eyes and smiles.

Ah, the sign of a high quality mind.

The Master salivates. The audience awaits.

The Connoisseur scurries once again, toward the large screen at the back of the stage which has emerged from above. The food´s shell crackles and burns. It is filled with the Father´s vigor, and it shall serve.

No resource is ever wasted.

The taster finishes a seconds long journey which extends into painful hours for the hungry audience. It connects itself with the screen, and the food´s memories begin to broadcast for all to see.

Dreams, nightmares, hopes, desires.

Its daughter.

The audience closes their eyes, as they indulge themselves on the raw emotions discharged from the transmission. Long sighs are heard from within, as breaths which were held for too long are finally released. Ecstasy flows freely, as the Matron leaves for Her chambers at the depths of the Moon.

The raven swoons and collapses onto the scarred man´s lap, as he gently strokes her head and slumps into his chair. The masked one´s shoulders ease their tension for the first time in months.

"It is truly beautiful, the nature of life, the love for family, the nostalgia for home. Nothing is more pure and sacred than a person's memories, their identity, the experiences that shape them into who they become. We are truly blessed to taste such a delicacy, to feel life itself."

As the Master breaks the somber silence with even more somber words, the man who was once food steps out of the air. He shimmers with the lavender waters of the Cosmos, a smile wide in his once terrified face.

The Master shakes his hand, as equals, and embraces him in brotherly comradery.

"You were once nothing, and now you are everything. Thank you for what you have provided, Isaac. Let us guide you in return through fulfilling eternity."

Isaac returns the fervor of the Master´s embrace. Glass tears drop from his eyes, as he asks the Master for one simple request.

"Please, do not leave my daughter behind."

Amber spills forth from a sharp dress. The steel is swift, unseen to the simple eye. The steel is swung by hot fury, whose timber is righteousness.

The steel is stolen. Taken from sacred hammer and divine anvil. Taken by one who saw, but rejected. By one who heard, but denied. By one whose knowledge provides endless torment. By one who is impotent to stop the engines of salvation. By one who seethes and stews in silence, as those greater look down upon meek whimpers.

By a sword, who has grown a conscience.

And yet, the steel is swung, and the swing is true.

Silver point has pierced golden heart.

The countless, impaled upon this silver point have never witnessed the moment. Their eyes too slow, their minds incapable of comprehension. Clad in lavender Will, the sword dashes in gallantry. In war-born heraldry which spans the stars and centuries.

Heraldry, founded upon Will.

His Will.

Domain of He who it despises.

And yet, the Master sees.

The moment, which is but an unseen blur for those pierced by the silver point, stretches for the Master.

For it has come. The first death. The temporary end to physicality.

The Master has thought of this very moment during many long nights. He has confided with partners, he has conversed with comrades and colleagues.

He has ended the stories of countless who have set foot on his theaters. To his backstage galleries. To his personal chambers and playrooms. He has strived for each end to be worthy.

Painful, yes, but merciful.

It gave each meaning. He researched all his guests. He scoured through the pages of their lives, and gave each a worthy ending.

A worthy new beginning.

A stark contrast, to the nothing of their lives.

Will his be the same?

He has time to wonder, as he sees the sword begin its wrathful swing.

Perfect technique, he has to admit. A wonder to behold through the blur.

How unfortunate that the sword is so simple of mind.

Perhaps the Father can make it see.

When He crosses.

For he knows that He has His eyes on many.

The Master is often underestimated by the warrior Lords of Paradise. And yet, if one is fair one must admit that he cares not for the blood fed glory that the Immortal paid for, the mechanic excellence of his Overseer-robed cousin, or the silent and subtle grandeur of the Masked One.

He will forever wonder about her. He cannot passively see into her mind, and he respects her enough not to pry deeper. And yet, he always did sense buried unease.

Dread.

What does she hide?

Under her silence?

Under her mask?

Perhaps he does not want to know.

Or perhaps he does.

He has always been curious.

Where he is going, he will have eternity to ponder.

Eternity to think.

Eternity to search.

And yet it is quite a shame, is it not?

If only his body could match the speed of his mind. Long nights sparring with the Raven have prepared him for this exact occasion. He could escape into the Veil, or simply step through it to evade the swing. He could dance with the sword, he could play to the crowd before him, he could offer such a showing!

And yet his body is clumsy paste. His muscles give out. They pay the price of Sin.

His poor Lady. Defiled, destroyed.

Erased.

Something has been torn from his mind. From his self. His legs give out, his performers´s brains expire from the shock.

He is a dying man whose life support has been turned off. He is a gasping patient, whose ventilator has been stolen. Arteries connecting core to body have been tied shut.

He feels his body shut down a hundred times in the span of seconds. He feels his mind drain away into the bottomless hole which Her absence has left. Which the animal has ripped out.

It is intense. Intense beyond imagining. He tastes the sensation, for he has never inflicted nor felt such before.

He restrains his curiosity, for such pain is defiled blasphemy, not blessed sacrament.

His eyes burn bright.

When he returns, as he knows he will.

When He crosses, as he knows He will.

He will break this sword in two. He will bury the animal which should have remained dead.

He will avenge his Lady.

But for now, he is helpless.

He cannot do anything but watch the sword swing. But feel the point pierce. But draw last breaths as the moments pass by in the speed of mere blink.

And he smiles.

So intimate a death, by one who thinks of him as dust on heel. Such rawness. Such emotion.

Such ultimate futility.

Ah, Battlemaster, you do understand!

The curtain draws. He lands on the floor, and crumples. His coat is shredded, polished shoes slick with amber ichor.

He smiles.

As he feels his essence absorbed by a God which exists unseen above all reality.

Whose tendrils and branches wrap around all living beings.

Whose totality would frighten the emperor of all Ethereals, who towers over his dying form with contempt clear on a helmeted face.

Whose discovered scope would see Paradise atomized following panic stricken orders.

All they had seen, a mere finger stuck in a pond. The being above hidden from view.

He breaks the surface of the water.

He sees It in Its entirety.

It is colossal.

It is titanic.

It is majestic.

And he dives into the nebulas which clothe three all encompassing stars.

The Mind Cosmos beckons Preximius. The simple words contained within Inspirars´s tomes fail to portray the sight before him. The mere mirages and reflections his own pilgrimages to Naztrum Ognis proving inadequate.

He feels his eyes open. Open finally, open truthfully. All he had seen before, all he had known, was but a mere blink.

He thinks on his comrades who await their turn, back in physicality. He thinks on the long afternoons, as he pondered with his fellow Lords on what awaited within the great beyond. Of the commissioned arts, on the plays he wrote.

All meager.

Lacking.

Ask a man who has lived his life with his eyes closed to blink once. Just a single time, for a fraction of a second.

Ask this man to retell all he has seen. To detail colors and motions. To interpret a world he has never experienced before. To even begin to comprehend what that single, precious second transmitted to his mind.

It is impossible. Futile.

He is humbled. He has much to learn.

And learn he will. For he will eventually return.

Preximius takes ponderous steps into the nearest nebula. His feet touch orchid clouds which flow like streams. And above as below, an endless sky. A soft golden curtain, adorned in proud inky suns and stars. Ebony courtiers, to the Three rulers who sit silent at the core.

He kneels upon the soft passages, and his eyes twinkle in the beauty he witnesses.

His eyes sink into the canvas, as miniature stars are born within the clouds. The stars grow, wither, implode, and are born again. The miniature dots form into collectives. Pocket-sized galaxies, knit in the shape of glyphs. He reads the messages which adorn the clouds, as diamonds crown royal velvet. Words of welcome, words of calm, of direction.

Underneath the words, underneath the crystal passage, his eyes wash over multitudes of floating islands. All islands, a nation. From the distance he can appreciate their ponderous size, and yet ponderous sizes mean little as he beholds the sheer distance he would travel were he to drop to the theoretical bottom of this heaven.

From his vantage point, he can see the nearest islands. Each crowned in magnificent cities and constructs. He savors the familiar architecture of Speculmins in each, and is delighted to see the bending of physics inside this realm free creative architects to design spaces which should not function, but by His grace do.

He can spy shapes and configurations which border on the fantastical. One island, an inverted castle, molded entirely from rose tinted glass. On the top of the castle, he can see ever expanding spires. They number in the hundreds, ever rising, ever forming, as they seemingly reach for a bottom which he is unsure even exists. An upside down Tower of Babel, he thinks to himself. Human mythology has always fascinated him. His is a God which grows not angered at the attempts of His followers to understand Him, he muses, as he watches Children he has never seen before aid in the never ending construction of such a monument.

On another, he witnesses a bannered dome which he somehow knows has been carved from a single, continental, block of marble. He should not be able to see the bustling multitudes which celebrate inside. He should not be able to hear the cheering of the masses, the inexhaustible playfulness of younglings, and the exasperated yelling of parents who have lost them in the crowds. He should not be able to smell and taste the banquets, filled with foods and drink which have served as the symbols of the day to day for countless different cultures.

He should not be able to touch the wealth of this cornucopia which spans ages.

He is himself. And yet he is One with the crowds inside that dome.

He is finally part of the Family.

Tears well behind his eyes.

He keeps looking down, his curiosity insatiable inside the wondrous realm.

He can see an infinity of islands underneath the ones he has observed. "Alien" is the word he would use to describe the unfamiliar styles and shapes which he beholds, and yet he realizes that the Father would never describe the variance His family enjoys with such derogatory words. These are his brothers, these are his sisters, this is his Home.

Despite the enormous amount of continents which adorn the Father´s golden skies, he sees degrees of separation between each. Clear demarcations, borders which mark realms. Are they separated by species? Are they classified by purpose? Is division even praxis in a realm where harmony is as basic and ingrained as atoms are on matter?

The islands float alone in the flaxen sea underneath his feet. Alone, and yet not abandoned. He can see cloudy passages, crystalline bridges, connect every single island to their neighbors. As roads on a megapolis, the bridges twist in various ways, forming a heavenly engine of connection between the peoples of the Father´s family.

He sees processions walk through the lavender roads, as their feet glide above the warm currents. Lost in conversation with friends or partners. The procession is unceasing, as the countless enjoy the day to day inside the Cosmos to the fullest, savoring the cultures and endless diversions of body and spirit the Father freely offers.

Their voices, his mind should process as unpleasant cacophony. To his ever increasing pleasure, the Father´s art molds the billion whispers into angelic chorus which teases his ears.

Tears drip from his eyes. It is perfect. It is all he has imagined. It is more than all who still live know.

Lost in thought, he does not notice a blonde haired girl approach him.

Her voice startles Preximius, before he recognizes her.

Emma, the girl he sent to the Cosmos when the sword and his entourage invaded Holy Paradise.

Her smile is innocence. Her smile is purity.

No Sectoid has experienced childhood. He awoke from the blessed birthing tanks of the Sculptors. His mind ready to accept the Father, many truths and concepts implanted on him as his life began. As for his vacuous kin, the Hive Commanders stole the experience from them, as they now know nothing but servitude.

The concept intrigues him. To be so young as to be innocent. To be so young as to be malleable. To be so young as to be unconditionally trusting. To take advantage of a child is so easy. To spoil beauty which Nature produces lovingly is so simple.

Understanding fuels motive, and he protects children which come his way. Which are delivered to his care for salvation. He has peered into their minds many times, and as such always strove to help them ascend. For he understands that such innocence is temporary. The trivial concerns of childhood dissipate as the person matures, and many adults nostalgically yearn for this stage to return.

When life was simple, and the world was black and white. Where nothing could go wrong, as parents would be all-watching guardians who would always be strong, always know what to do. Where innocence had not been dethroned by the horrors of life, the bleakness of the world.

Preximius knew that this fleeting state could be preserved. Childhood need not be temporary, when eternity is available with but a command from his hand.

And for those whose childhoods had been infuriatingly stolen, he would provide what they missed. What they yearned.

And so he sent many younglings to the Cosmos. His only regret that he died so soon, with so many left to save.

He would always make time to visit the younglings, when Naztrum Ognis still existed for Paradise to orbit. Their smiles and their joy upon his visits would energize his heart.

Many of the children he sent to the Cosmos were terrified during the experience. He did not blame them, did not condemn them, but when he met them again he knew his mission was righteous.

They understood what was gifted, and they would await the day their friend would join them.

Emma hugs him with the tenderness one reserves for a brother who has been missing for far too long.

With the pointing of a small hand, she bids him to see something which he had somehow missed during his awe-stricken observation of the surface of the Father's eternity.

Floating inside the resplendent void of the Cosmos, as the countless islands below, lies a trophy to the Father´s endurance. His eternity. A monument to the futility of opposing Him. To the wasted efforts of sinners outside.

Naztrum Ognis.

Mirth adorning both faces, the Sectoid lifts the Human girl and lets her sit on his unburdened shoulders.

As they walk to an eternity of possibilities, over a bridge studded in stars.

Girl and Sectoid enter the Holy City, imperial archways welcoming the latest pilgrim into the megapolis which serves as the jewel in the Father´s crown. The golden skies´ hues are mixed with the pleasant violet of kingly wine, as the Three stars shine directly above the city´s High Temple.

Its remnant in physicality destroyed, its splendor in eternity untarnished. Unreachable, unsullied, everlasting.

The young girl prances around the crowds and leads the Sectoid by her hand, as the souls of billions bustle through flawless streets, the daily commute already commenced. The monuments of empire stretch above Preximius´s overwhelmed eyes. Crystal spires extend above cathedrals, as intricate mosaics spread under the countless feet which walk unhindered.

The artwork is so expansive that Prexmius thinks he will have to climb to one of the balconies of the many palatial mansions he sees in the horizon in order to admire them fully, but his mind´s eyes open and allow him to see their full candor.

Immortalized in stone, he absorbs triumphs throughout the Father´s history. The first Paradise, the primordial Prophets. The first of species to be welcomed to the city, the many attempted Crossings.

Puzzlingly, defeats at the hands of Sovereigns. An immense golden titan who towers over a small station, with figures kneeling before it. Figures which he can make out as his fellow Lords back in physicality. Figures which include himself.

Why exalt such shame? Why exalt failure? Preximius winces at thoughts of the Father´s humiliation at the hands of the Imperator.

Many voices answer in comforting chorus.

Failure is an opportunity to learn. To ascend beyond one´s hubris. To remain sharp once the Crusade is at hand.

In Naztrum Ognis, the Father´s totality is worshipped. His strength. His weakness. His joy. His pain.

There is no shame in being bested. No shame in being denied.

Preximius metaphorically nods.

But disagrees on one point.

They have not failed.

For his comrades still live outside. For this Crossing they have toiled so loyally to see pass would not be ended.

By the will of a gold clad fool.

Puzzlingly, however, they make no mention of his Lady´s demise.

Not one word of sympathy. Not one offer of condolences.

He senses no memorials. He hears no funerary prayers.

Curious, if unsettling.

He decides to silence this thought, for he wishes not to perturb the peace.

As the mental debate continues, the billions of Naztrum Ognis collectively recognize the new arrival.

The Master they had heard so much about. The Prince who had frequented visits upon the public spaces, who had sent so many to their blessed halls.

One by one, the voices greet the Master. They wish him a smooth transition, ask for autographs, for him to join their troupes or come grace personal revelries and banquets.

Preximius still walks, Emma leading the way to a destination she has planned, but his mind is lost in the sea of admirers which flock to the new arrival.

Ever gracious, the Master finds it easy to greet each individual personally. His mind works at speeds impossible for even the most powerful and skilled of telepaths, processing conversations which last hours as if they ended in the fraction of seconds. Conversations which an observer would have considered disrespectful and uninterested due to their sheer speed, but which Preximius knows have been satisfied and full.

And one by one Preximius greets the people of Naztrum Ognis, ingratiating himself with the cream of the Cosmos in the span of minutes, while Emma walks none the wiser.

The Sectoid is impressed by the ease of power he commands. By the bottomless wellspring of vitality and energy which he could drink from inside the blessed city.

He, a mere fragment. An atom of sand laying over a vast beach.

If he could command such inside the sacred realm, what of the Father? The ruler of this kingdom of crystal and gold?

He laughs privately at the thought of the Imperator controlling a being which could be considered Supreme. Of a being which directs the currents of the Veil as naturally as one moves an arm.

Hubris is universal, after all.

The blonde haired girl reaches her destination. A small house, nestled between titanic skyscrapers and stately theatres. A humble bakery, thriving in a nation of luxurious services and goods. All is done in jest, of course, for in the Father's Dream there is no need for currency.

The eternal are free to do as they please inside the Cosmos, and many settle for familiar routines, returning to old trades and perfecting them beyond what a mortal lifespan allows, or dedicating themselves to interests and crafts they could never fulfill before their passing.

One such creation is Emma´s small bakery, which she proudly presents to her Sectoid friend.

Who ignores it completely, still lost in the sea of minds which unceasingly besieges him.

Emma pouts, before kicking her friend in the knee so hard as to awake him from his rich stupor.

The Sectoid is sharply returned to lies in front of his eyes, the shock and warmth of pain and anger diffused by the young lady´s face. He apologizes to his friend and guide, whose smile returns to her visage.

Ever gracious, Preximius congratulates Emma on her home, before both open a mahogany carved door, entrance to the Master´s new life.

It does not matter to the Master that this is far from the luxury he is accustomed to.

Far from the grandeur which sweetens the very air they breathe.

For a gift received is never one to be shunned.

For pure and generous souls are not to be shamed.

The days pass quickly, as the Master adapts to his new reality. During the days, he and Emma run the small bakery, and the Master delights in the surprise of the small clientele when they realize he is the one now serving them bread and other confections.

During the nights, the Master dons black cloak and garb, customary fashion of the Cosmos. Antique styles hailing from more civilized times. The Father´s tastes preserved inside this crystal bubble, protected from the pollution of twisted mortality. Protected from the hordes of metal, the scheming divinities, or the machinations of aspiring mortals.

This is the Father´s hidden treasure. His dream, to be kept precious and exclusive. His vault, to save that which He wishes to preserve.

Preximius is not one for a life of quiet permanence. Cloaked and garbed, he takes off during these nights to see and experience all that the eternity of this City has to offer.

On some escapades, he takes Emma along. For the girl, once shy, is emboldened by his influence. Energized, she begs the Master for adventures. For thrills. And who is he, if not one to please?

During the nights, they stand under the Archways of the Prophets. Each a masterpiece of architecture, boasting styles and aesthetics of the species the respective Prophet belonged to. All colored a clear white, resplendent in the imperial hues of Naztrum Ognis´s royal sky. The stars above, heraldry and studded jewels to the pillars of the Father´s faith.

During the nights, they convene the Little Cub´s Club. A small congregation of all the children Preximius has sent to the Cosmos. Nostalgia assaults the Master´s heart as he remembers when he used to visit this same gathering. On distant times when he was physically alive, and the insultingly called Dead World was his only avenue to peer through the curtains of reality and visit his friends and family.

Wistfully, he remembers the raw pain and sorrow which coursed through him as the Ethereal Destroyer´s energies ravaged the defenseless planet. Many regrets coursed through him, but none greater than the thought that he would never see his small friends again.

How wrong had he been.

How little did he understand.

Preximius and Emma smile, as the children each take turns to tell stories. Share the many experiences they have enjoyed inside the Cosmos, as they lie on the lush grasses of the Father´s prairies, eating colorful fruits picked from trees and bushes, as the group stare at the gleaming skies.

On many nights, however, Preximius must lull Emma to sleep. Some of his adventures are not befitting of innocent minds.

Putting a child to sleep proves to be a task that the Master does not excel at.

He has flipped the pages of many parents´ minds when he worked his craft on his shows and banquets. While tasting their memories and enjoying their lives, he has been witness to common parenting methods, which he must now try.

Many tell their progeny stories as they lie in bed, slowly putting them to rest as sweet and comforting words embrace the child.

He attempts this.

Only to find, to his chagrin, that Emma wants to keep listening. The stories do the opposite, driving away any tiredness in the girl's eyes.

He tries exhausting her, challenging her to various games. "Tag" a favorite of the Human infant. Preximius chases her through sprawling alleyways and gaping streets before realizing that perhaps trying to tire out no mere child, but an eternally vigorous soul of the Cosmos, is a doomed proposition from its very conception.

When he finally catches her, the girl giggling as he lifts her and lets her sit on his shoulders, he brings her back to the small house they have shared for many days and nights.

The Master decides to use his skill at manipulating the mind in order to calm the raging beast that is her energy.

Dress and embellish the truth as he might wish, this is admitting defeat, but Preximius is out of ideas and options.

He tucks her in bed, and asks if she wants to hear yet another story.

As she listens, he gently enters the doors of her mind, softly sedating her synapses as her eyes begin to groggily close.

"There was once a lady who lived on a Moon made of glass,

She had a tea table, but no friends to drink with,

She had many toys, but no children for her to share,

And every night she sat on a chair, overlooking a beautiful world beneath,

A world of color, so different from her pale Moon,

A world of sound, so different from her silent Moon,

So one day she stood up and jumped down from her home,

For in this world there were people to talk to, she knew,

And so from the Moon she descended

So she could make friends to drink with, so she could gift the children her toys

But the people were scared,

And with clubs they beat her,

From thrown torches she blazed,

They did not want her tea,

They broke her toys,

The lady cried, for she did not know why she was hated,

When all she wanted was to spread joy,

So she went back to her Moon,

Where she would cry alone,

No one to hear her,

No one to care,

But she did not give up, for she still wanted a friend,

Someone to tell her the tea is delicious,

Someone to tell her the toys are well made"

He knew such a somber story would make her ask questions, but by the time he is finished she is fast asleep, softly snoring.

He places a ward over his mind. A box, where he will hide his thoughts from the connected ears of the Family.

He still has witnessed no reaction to the death of the Saint he served. Puzzling, upsetting.

But he decides to grieve alone.

He sighs, for the story he told the girl was one too close for him. Though many days had passed since the Sin, he still felt for his Lady. The hole inside him still throbbing with pain.

He would never forget the memory of his Matron.

Memories of time spent together at the halls of the Cradle, musing over the many products of their combined erudite minds, debating philosophies and interpretations expressed by cherished visitors.

Memories of long nights spent sharing recipes. Of wild ideas which coursed through his mind, and She echoed excitedly.

Memories of congratulations when performances were complete. Of respectful critiques and suggestions he would always process diligently, and She would deliver with a smile.

Memories of simple conversation. Away from the professionalism of day to day operations. Divorced from formalities or boundaries. Where he would openly share his doubts, insecurities. Where She would comfort, and Her words would reinforce his faith. Where sometimes She would share her worries, where She would express heartfelt gratitude for the loving family She enjoys.

Even if She did not disclose too many secrets, even if there were things She could not say, Preximius did not mind. For She was his God, and he was a fortunate servant.

There was intimacy of many kinds. There was connection which could never be replicated. Replaced.

Even now, remembering happier times, Preximius catches himself smiling.

And it quickly fades.

He knows She will return.

It will take many long years.

It will take many silent nights and distracting days.

But She will return.

And even then, he cannot help himself but feel guilty.

The Dead Ethereal murdered Her by commanding the cells which built Her body to destroy themselves. To break down into insipid slurry.

A discipline he is well versed in as well.

He could have stopped it.

He should have stopped it.

He would have died. Such was unavoidable.

But She would still live.

He would listen to Her voice inside the Mind Cosmos. He would tell his God, no, his friend, all that he had seen and experienced. And She would laugh, for he had so much more to see.

But now it is silent.

Despite the trillion souls which swim in this sea alongside him.

It is silent.

Preximius´s eyes wash over the girl which slept. Mercifully ignorant of the guilt he carries inside.

He mutely thinks.

He has a future.

He has a roof under his head. He has a family to care for and multitudes to attend to.

He is loved, despite his failure.

He is cherished, despite the absence of his Lady.

He is forgiven, for the Father understands.

For this eternity is His thanks for a life of service.

For service which has not yet ended.

Will never end.

Which he does not want to end.

And so he stands, invigorated. To wallow in pity, to be swallowed in sorrow, is dishonor to the Lady´s memory. He dons his sharp suit and his polished shoes. A long cloak flowing from his back, as he carefully opens the door and attends his many invitations.

On these nights, Preximius answers invitations and hosts various spectacles. Summons to the palatial mansions, where revelry of all types governs over order and formality. The Master partakes in food, drink, substance and flesh. It is what he is accustomed to, it is where he reigns.

In such, he partakes of many lovers. All have curves in the right places, and the tendrils of some provide an exoticness which the Master cannot help but chase.

During one such night, he enjoys the company of a woman, whose left hand lacks two fingers, her black hair contrasting the artificial light of grand chandeliers. Reunited while on a banquet hosted by noble courtiers, she playfully drags him to private bedchambers.

She did tell him, after all, that true delights awaited once he found himself inside His realm.

On other nights, Preximius is gracefully asked to host concerts and conduct for the High City´s philharmonic. He greets this noble army of musicians, them far older and experienced than the Master, and yet eager to perform under such acclaimed expertise.

On some nights, as Emma begins to wisen towards Preximius´s sedation, she demands he take her along regardless of what he is up to. An acceptable request, as Preximius´s mind has already concocted a plan for such an eventuality.

His aristocratic friends have children of their own as well, as do many of their guests. A teahouse plucked right out of the fairytales she so loves to hear is constructed beside the mansions and manors. It is here, that the children can be safely left, while their caretakers enjoy the more… adult offerings of the Cosmos.

Emma does not see through the clear ruse, as her delight upon meeting new friends blinds her to the Master´s machinations.

One night, however, Emma asks the Master if they can visit the High Temple. The edifice which towers above all the majesty of Naztrum Ognis. Which inexplicably surpasses all spectacles that the city boasts.

He agrees, as he himself has harbored interest for such an excursion for some time.

During this night, they climb the thousand steps which lead to the High Temple. Or perhaps Palace is a far more accurate term. The imposing building is the size of one of the continental islands Preximius witnessed as his journey began. Spires and towers reach so far above as to almost touch the Three celestials themselves.

Lifelike statues stand guard above posh balconies and citadels. Constructs Preximius recognizes as the Six Saints. Each statue unique, as the Six have varied in appearance throughout the ages. Each with repeated themes and details he can use to identify each.

Anger secretly boils as he sees his Lady´s incarnations. Each beautiful in their own ways. Exotic, recognized, common, unexpected. Beauty which has been defiled. Beauty which he will avenge.

The building material which encompasses the Palace is one Preximius recognizes. The texture of diamonds, with stars and nebulae shining from within. Colors which shift through the recognizable spectrum of light, undecided as to where to settle. Combinations and hues impossible to describe with written word. Colors which dance through the black void, prancing through the cosmic winds, the stars their waltzing halls.

As they climb, their eyes are fixed on the metal lining the steps, on the haunting beauty of the palace itself. Condensed galaxies, held in frames of gold.

For the Universe is the Father´s birthright. The raw material which awaits His claiming. Building blocks to absolute legacy. The diadem ring He will gift to the Mother.

And He has already begun building, for that Palace is the bedrock, the foundation of His Dreaming Empire. A kingdom where fantasies need not remain false.

Cross.

He only needs to Cross.

And He is so close.

As they reach the enormous gate at the top of the great steps, liturgies to the Prophets and Saints carved in the flawless metal, a familiar face greets the visitors.

The Sentinel, warrior brother to Preximius, stands guard. Murdered by the Imperator minutes before his own corporeal demise, the Master is glad that the former Order Lord has found a place to occupy.

Even if his new role is far too similar to his past one. Guard, soldier, sentry.

The being´s very name distills his duty, his mission.

Preximius wonders if he has ever wished for more. If he has ever longed for purpose beyond such a simple, if honored, one.

Before, when they lived corporeal, the Lord would always courteously deny the Master´s attempts to offer diversion. Not a single time did he choose to attend the spectacles of Speculmnis, or the revelries which he hosted. As a Lord, the Sentinel had permission to attend as many as he pleased, unlike Caretakers which had to earn the invitation. And yet, he never took advantage of that privilege so coveted by those of less authority.

He always stood at His Wisdom´s side. Unflinching, silent. The towering shadow which followed the Artist´s steps as the first of her bodyguard.

Why?

Duty is necessary, that he would not deny, but if given the opportunity, why not be more than a soldier? Why not be more than an automaton of flesh? Why regress to the role which the sightless Commanders had forced upon all lesser Sectoids?

When the infinity of the Cosmos is upon you, what is this compulsion to remain the same? To follow orders and be a flawless combatant, when there is no need for soldiery in a realm that none save those chosen can reach?

Preximius supposes, that perhaps true freedom lies in choice. He and the Sentinel are two Sectoids, two brethren, that have chosen wildly different paths. And they both chose to do so, and both have found happiness in their choices.

Even if he does not understand, he respects his fellow Lord for his choice, and waives a hand in greeting.

Emma hides behind him, the towering height of the warrior intimidating the small girl. The Lord's armor as pristine as he remembers it, the Ethereal Emperor´s fury ignored by the silver patterns.

The Lord returns the Master´s greeting with a curt nod.

"You and your daughter may enter the High Temple. The Prophets´ Chambers are off limits."

Blunt and to the point, just how the Master knows his brother. Although he is slightly caught off guard by Emma being referred to as his daughter.

He looks back at the child which now holds his hand as they prepare to pass through the gate, her eyes asking his for direction inside a realm she has never set foot inside.

Her expression stirs something inside him.

He wants to protect her. For she is his little companion, for she is his little flame to nurture.

She has been the one constant in all his experiences inside the realm of Dreams.

The gift he had not realized he would receive.

Preximius and Emma.

Father and daughter.

It does have a pleasant ring to it.

The Mind Cosmos never fails to surprise the Master.

The Palace grounds glow with distilled triumph and physical victory. A crimson carpet dresses marble floors, its golden embroidery and inscriptions beckoning the eyes to look at walls which proudly display innumerable portraits of stained glass, and ceilings which are so tall their alcoves and balconies seem as clouds swimming through a far away sky. A dim light is all which is provided by clerical chandeliers and mounted lamps, respectful of the sheer history preserved inside this continental building.

Countless pilgrims engage in subdued and private worship, as he sees multitudes exalt the Father in multiple ways. Many silently sit on the many benches which line all ascending levels of the Palace, as bees inside a honeycomb. Others admire the sculptures, portraits and paintings which decorate the long halls, their eyes closed, living history through an unbreakable connection to the Being which watches from above.

The Palace, the nexus of the Cosmos, where the Father's blessing flows most directly, connecting all souls inside into a single all encompassing being. Preximius feels Emma´s hand tighten upon the unfamiliar sensations, as he sees himself be split into hundreds of copies.

The first him sits alongside a veiled reptilian man, himself a previous Voice, quietly discussing scripture. The burning stare of Omnima visible on a sculpture above their heads. Enormous bonfires lit around them, the intense flames seemingly threatening to spread and consume the beauty of the Palace, but always kept obedient.

The second him walks in procession, candle in hand, as he ascends long spirals of stairways. The procession reaches the top of a spire, chapel dedicated to the Second of the Three, Agmus. The God´s thousand hands open in invitation, the hundreds of the procession cut away their own metaphorical flesh. Reshape the chunks of meat into offerings for the Mother´s Betrothed, as infantile limbs grow on hallowed floors as sweetly flowers.

The third him descends down a hidden trapdoor, into a room which resembles a forgotten dungeon. The silence is alarming, as not even his own thoughts have voice inside the negated space.

He produces a needle and thread from unseen pockets, and diligently sews his eyelids and mouth shut. A knife is withdrawn from these same bottomless pockets, and is unflinchingly jammed into his ears, rupturing the drums inside.

The blinded, muted, and deafened him prostrates himself in reverence tinged with fear, as the tragic visage of the Infant sleeps above. Slumbering in the darkness, forever trapped as unmoving statue. His own skin turning a chalky white, dry cracks beginning to open.

The Trinity, eminence which he barely understood before entering the Cosmos.

Eminence is so clear now. So simple to understand. So necessary to digest.

The hundred hims continue their explorations of the Palace. Each is an individual, independent from Preximius who still stands near the entrance, eyes closed as he lives a hundred lives directly, thousands more through passive observation.

Each him answers to directives ordered by the main self, but if left uncommanded will descend down their own, unique and unrepeated, path.

Preximius drinks from the hundred independent thoughts and sensations. Shards of his personality and soul present inside the hundred minds and patterns.

His mind is a book with many pages. He can focus on one at a time, or flip through them rapidly, and yet somehow still comprehending what each page has to say.

Is this what the Father feels?

When He acts through His Saints?

When He sees through our eyes?

The blessed building opens Preximius´s eyes to truths his still corporeal comrades would desperately seek to understand. It is beautiful, it is perfect.

The Master pulls his eyes out of the hundred paged book, and faintly feels his copies return to their ministrations.

He understands the silence of the Palace, as his sight glides from visitor to visitor, realizing they all have their eyes closed, absorbed in books of their own. Each living a hundred lives as they scale the endless heights and bottomless halls of this edifice. Emma´s grip loosens, as she is accustomed to this new state of existence, her eyes shut in peaceful enjoyment.

As the Master continues to observe the monumental architecture and decor, he notices beings which clearly stand out from the crowd he has grown accustomed to.

Clad in robes and hoods colored as the sky above Naztrum Ognis, the beings´s eyes glow in pure gold. Skin like porcelain, gleaming tentacles erupt from their backs, knitting together into crowns and halos. Their faces resemble chiseled masks, but move and twitch in natural expression. Each face boasts varying features, from number of eyes, to shapes of mouths, to noses or orifices.

Some are clearly mammalian in origin as hair or its likeness flows from under the hoods, adorning flawless faces.

Others are insectoids, chitin clear in their skin, or wings sprouting through their modified robes.

Others are aquatic, tendrils extending as beards on faces, or replacing hands and feet.

Avians, reptilians, non carbon based lifeforms, mixtures of all. Some he cannot even begin to describe as living, for they fit into no categorization Preximius has ever seen or conceived of.

And yet there is one common thread which binds them.

The unsaid authority each exude.

The slowness in their movement, as they float above the ground, their bare feet not needing to touch mundane floors.

The armies of armored champions and ornamented nobles which march in slow and patient step behind each. The ponderous size of the palace making the columns seem small, not distracting for those who worship.

He knows who they are, for he has sat under the shade of their statues. For he and Emma have walked through their archways and their bridges.

The Prophets.

Those who led each past attempt for the Father to Cross.

He watches in respectful admiration, as many of the Prophets extend hands or their equivalents to softly touch the shut eyed worshipers. Their eyes open, golden as the flaxen sea, and join the procession which continues its slow march.

He sees other Prophets expertly direct the parades behind them through worshippers and visitors, who so entranced in the gift of the Father, are none the wiser as to who has just walked behind them.

The Master´s attention is pulled toward the stained glass nearest him, a stylized depiction of a Prophet.

His eyes dart to the long halls of the Palace, and notices countless portraits, each holding the visage of a Prophet inside.

Has the Father truly attempted and failed to Cross hundreds of times?

Or has He baptized Prophets even when He did not attempt to escape?

To preserve their knowledge? To build His Cosmos in secret, away from the prying eyes of the Falsely Divine?

Before he can return to the portrait he wishes to observe, he feels a hand push him into the stained glass itself. The glass parts like water, absorbing him as lake swallows thrown stone.

He is caught off guard by the surprise assault, and is powerless to resist, as his entire body is made to obey the mysterious hand.

He falls into the portrait, his wonder at the impossible experience dispelling any alarm.

As he falls, he reprimands himself for still not expecting further surprises inside the Cosmos.

"Impossible" is not a concept which exists inside this realm of imagination made fact.

His fall ends, and he lands on an unfamiliar place.

Sand and rock.

A dim horizon, as four suns relent their merciless baking of the ground.

Deathlike cold beginning to set.

A barren world. One his mind instantly sharpens itself against.

For this deserted rock is close to the Veil.

Close, as physical Naztrum Ognis once was outside the Cosmos.

However, while Naztrum Ognis´s condition was induced by an attempt at Crossing, Preximius somehow knows that the curtains separating this planet from the Veil have eroded naturally.

Not a gaping window which encompasses the entire planet, but a small crack.

Just big enough for something to communicate through it.

Close to his landing position, Preximius sees a figure, wrapped in ravaged cloths and dust-caked scarves to protect it from the raging sandstorms. No further features are visible on the figure, save for three weak eyes whose light has started to dim.

He tries communicating to it, to no avail.

This must be a reflection, then.

A stored memory which he now relieves.

The draped figure cradles a smaller one on its arms. Weak, gasping, clutching at empty air as if attempting to grasp something only it could see.

The coming of slow death, this he can tell. He has had ample experience in administering those, of course.

But while his offerings always led the affected to eternity, he cannot help but feel pity at the small figure destined to die alone, abandoned, on a forgotten rock floating on some unknown corner of a cold Universe.

The older figure cries out in a strange tongue. Female in its pitch, the woman desperately waits for anything or anyone to answer. To offer any aid to the sickly or starving youngling.

Prayers which he can tell are hopeless.

As only a being ignored by the grace of fortune would find herself in this situation.

But there is One who is above fortune.

One who denies cruel fate.

One who will not let this woman's story end.

Preximius can tell what will happen.

Who will peer through that tear in the curtain.

The event occurs, and the image before him quickly shifts. Far too quickly for any mortal to properly perceive, but perfectly adequate by a mind enhanced by infinity.

He witnesses her life in its fullest. He drinks deep of this repository of knowledge.

And he finally knows who this Prophet is.

He is blessed to witness the rise of such an important figure.

She is the first mortal to ever be reached by the Father. Rather than flee in terror upon the incomprehensible being which had not yet perfected His approach to mortals, she invited Him into her soul.

Through her, the Father would regain His composure from the mind-shattering torment He had endured inside the Veil. Through her, the Father would create the pillars of how His worship would be conducted.

Through her, He would enrich Himself in the culture and knowledge of her species.

The forlorn Exenter. Shattered victims of the constant wars of the Sovereigns. Her, among the small amount of refugees whose home systems were carelessly destroyed as "acceptable" collateral damage in a duel between False Divinities.

Scattered refugees, who only managed to reach a desolate wasteland by mere chance. As their vessels ran out of precious fuel. As fate threatened to leave them stranded in the desolate void, stranded to go mad from loneliness or off themselves as they fought for the few remaining resources inside their ships.

Who, as they made it to this planet, quickly found themselves on the verge of collapse and extinction, as vital crops had been the latest victims of the unforgiving elements. As fortune laughed in their faces for daring to wish for second chances.

He would bear no such injustice. He would save them all, gift them an eternity where sustenance would be plentiful, and where none would starve due to lack or need.

All she had to do, was lead Him to them.

And she did.

And thus, the Cosmos was built, this species forgotten by the Universe its first blessed guests.

And she, for her efforts, would be rewarded justly.

There would be no attempt to Cross during this cycle.

The Father had to build. To collect His strength and gather His resources.

Nevertheless, she would become the First Prophet.

The Exenter, architects of the Cosmos. Guides, to aid the Father in relearning the art of dealing with fearful mortals. How to polish the approach, as God approaches ant.

For had she not been so desperate, she would have run from the incomprehensible being who attempted to simply talk to her.

He is pulled out of the memory, and he finds himself back in the Palace.

The golden robed figure of the First Prophet stands behind him, softly conversing with Emma, whose eyes are wide in sheer wonder at the towering presence before her. Scarves and cloth still cover her entire body, gloves hiding emaciated hands. Three golden eyes have replaced the fading lights of the portrait.

She never forgot her time in mortality. She never cured herself of the hunger which ravaged the remnants of her species.

While the rest gorged themselves in His gifts of plenty, as was their right, she decided to stay hungry.

To never forget what the mortals of the Universe outside faced should they fail.

Preximius realizes, that the wealthy barons, who owned the manors where he enjoyed nights of decadence, were members of this same species. Their formerly tattered robes and cloths now fabrics and scarves of artisan make. Somehow withstanding the pressure their respectable bellies and girth impose upon them.

Such a contrast to the frail Prophet, who should have been fatter than them all.

Preximius turns around, shock filling his soul as he hurriedly scolds the girl and bids her to kneel before this most respected of figures.

She bids them to rise, such formalities unnecessary in this place of family and connection.

The processions of the Prophets turn toward where she stands, and soon the First Prophet now has seemingly the entirety of the Palace´s visitors standing behind her. Patiently awaiting her words, words which are rarely heard, for she almost never leaves her own quarters.

"A most gracious guest has graced His Palace on this fated night" began the First Prophet, the honey pouring over the minds of all visitors as golden as her robes and aura.

"Master Preximius´s crop has come the closest to ushering the Father´s rise out of all incarnations in our history of worship,

Youngest of our family, their drive and resolve are unmatched by any attempts before them. Great the obstacles they face, we must celebrate their effort and the victory which will soon be won,

Let the realm of mortals hear our revelry, let our brothers and sisters in wounded Paradise know they do not stand alone.

Let us offer a parade of triumph, our thanks to all of the Artist´s crop, both physical and eternal."

As her words end, the procession led by the Prophets pours out of the main gates of the Palace.

Her commands unquestioned, the Cosmos rouses itself during a star filled night. A celebration to top all he has already experienced brewing as the millions of Naztrum Ognis rouse themselves, as multitudes from the continental islands flood the many astral bridges leading to the Holy Citadel.

Preximius smiles, for the First Prophet understands what it is to live.

What it is to liberate the self of any scruples.

To let others live in excess, even if she will not partake personally.

As the Palace empties itself out, Preximius feels the hand of the First Prophet caress his shoulder.

"Keep that smile, Master. You will need it for every customer which will presently visit your bakery."

Wise words, Preximius thinks, as he bolts toward obligations which are so easy to forget inside this blessed Heaven, Emma screaming in excitement as she rides his shoulders.

The cool midnight air cutting before her speeding noble steed.

The small bakery is quickly drowned in crowds of clients, as the masses are informed by the First Prophet that the vaunted Master has settled in this abode. Emma´s eyes twinkle as she enjoys attention she has never received before.

Not for malice or abandonment, but for the simple fact that it is far too painless to settle as one more drop in the currents. One more person to be blessed, one more for the Family of trillions.

The Father is always attentive, always listening. Willing to answer back, for a being as mighty as He can dedicate portions of a vast mind to conversing with the endless.

But to be recognized amongst the waves is much rarer. Much more precious.

The routine of immortality is shaken by the new experience, and Emma drinks off the Master´s extroversion.

The Master, for his part, is right at home. Inside the eye of a hurricane of adoration. The crowd seeks those who have served under the Artist, and Preximius cannot help but chuckle to himself as he thinks on his Sentinel brother being swarmed by admirers and proving to be wholly socially maladjusted for the occasion.

His hands work Emma´s prepared doughs, as his mind´s speech humors visitor after visitor, the line of customers stretching as far as the Gate of Prophet Narrum.

Cuisine has always been an interest for Preximius. Food is yet another of life's treasures shunned by his sightless brethren. So enthralled are the Commanders in the absolute obedience of efficiency, that they have forgotten what it is to taste and indulge. Depressing nutrient slurries are all a Sectoid has to look for in life, and the moment the Master learned of this during his educational courses he swore to become the exact opposite.

To prepare meals, exotic and familiar alike, would become one of the Master's many passions, and he would be sure to include this distinctive skill amongst the rich repertoire of his Lady´s Order.

The day progresses with unexpected speed, as the Master delights in engaging with every single customer that attends Emma´s previously humble bakery. Perhaps after this day he will propose expansion to her, for her modest business has suddenly found itself in the eye of the noblesse of the Cosmos.

But just as this most perfect of days threatens to pass unsullied and uninterrupted, horror strikes the souls of the trillions, horror which strikes with sudden sharpness which takes the Master aback.

The trillions collectively fall to whatever ground is underneath them, clutching their heads, screeching in incapacitating pain.

Color drains from vibrant Naztrum Ognis and the astral islands below, leaving behind only a sickly grey.

The Master feels no pain, and can only watch as the revelry of the Cosmos collapses utterly in callous cruelty.

He can do naught but cradle a convulsing Emma in his arms, as she begins expelling luminous colored liquid from her mouth and eyes. Liquid which flows unhindered from every individual twitching on the grounds, disfiguring bodies as bones break and limbs twist.

Liquid which is translucent. Liquid which reflects trauma from its surface.

The sight horrifies Preximius, who is helpless to ease the pain his companion or his newfound Family endure.

Through his mind´s eye he witnesses all statues to his Lady collapse to simple rubble, which then rots away as if it were a decomposing cadaver. The roof of the High Palace cracks in two, as if lightning had struck it.

The glass throne collapses.

Now only six remain.

Realization strikes him.

His Lady´s death.

It is being processed.

It has finally reached the Cosmos.

He has lived this trauma once, but the pain he felt as he stood on physical Paradise pales before the gurgling and gagging which have usurped laughter and song.

With horror, he realizes that this is the product of the death of one Saint.

And the Imperator has two more confined.

At his mercy.

Two which he can end, should he choose to do so.

His thoughts of the golden emperor are replaced by yet another surprise.

The first of the Three stirs.

The Sapphire Star quickly moves from its orbit, Her two brethren dormant, devoid of luster.

OMNIMA

The word is seared into his very being. Letters which call for justice. Letters, which thirst for vengeance.

Fire envelops Preximius. A fury which flows through his self as a natural extension.

All the pain he has endured. The loss of his Lady he has kept hidden for so long. Suffering he has hidden from his Family which need not know.

Gone. It is gone.

His self doubt. His guilt at failing to save Her. His constant sleepless nights pondering over different outcomes. Bitterness at remembering Her memory, bile in his taste as he beheld Her likeness.

Gone. It is gone.

To wallow in self pity is weakness. To channel it into retribution is to be efficient. To strike back at he who inflicted it.

He is filled with hatred, as cobalt flames burn down the bakery. Hatred which he resists with every fiber of his being, lest it consume the helpless girl he is supposedly protecting with his hands.

He will not destroy another loved one. He will not let death claim a second quarry.

And still he thirsts.

For the blood of that mundane Ethereal who dared raise a hand against one who is greater.

For the head of the gold clothed fool who will stand over Paradise no longer.

He covers Emma with his body as the inferno quickly spreads to the rest of the Holy City. Many will burn, but she will not. He will watch over her, even as she still writhes over scorching ground. As his hands blister once he cradles her with gloved hands.

As the trillions are scorched. As their eyes boil in sapphire oil.

The Star moves from the roof of the High Palace. Its gravitational pull tears Naztrum Ognis apart, as flame bellows around it. Tremors ravage the city as She slowly moves to a tear which has formed on the horizon of the now storm riddled skies.

A window into the world outside.

A window he struggles to see through, but just manages to catch a precious glimpse.

A glimpse into fools who stand on the hallowed floors of Paradise.

A glimpse into the slurry which was his Lady, still splattered on polished floors.

It is too much for him.

He cannot bear to see this again.

He cries out to the Sapphire Star which now covers the tear.

He begs Her to punish them all.

To ravage their small Collective.

To avenge a death unjustified.

To forge new monuments from their compressed ashes.

Hurricane winds blow around Preximius as Naztrum Ognis collapses. Blow through Emma´s greyed hair as he screams his wishes to the God who has come to burn down weakness.

As the Star lets him be witness to the condemnation of an Emperor who thinks himself divine.

As he drinks from Shuren´s poorly masked horror.

As the Human heretic realizes the scope of He whom she denied.

The Father's rage fully unmasked. Omnima´s pyres awaiting fresh kindling.

He smiles, as he cradles a mercifully unconscious Emma in his arms. Tremors and hurricanes exuded by Omnima´s unleashed predation. Fire which does not kill the trillions of the Cosmos, but burns away the apparels of decadence.

Decadence which is now ill suited for the Star´s mobilization for war.

War which will finally bring forth His escape.

For too long has He toiled under the whims of the lesser.

For too long has He limited Himself under fears and considerations.

And as the Star laughs at the vapid words of the Ethereal Emperor, of this Viatorian She unmasks, Preximius hears something which snaps him out of his intoxicated schadenfreude.

Help me.

Faint.

A faint cry which rides catastrophes meant to distract him.

Can you hear me?

That voice.

Familiar. So familiar.

It cannot be.

Help me.

Anyone.

Please.

Preximius runs toward the voice, Emma still cradled in his arms. He cannot believe his ears.

He does not want to believe. He does not want to rip the sutures which close this freshest of wounds.

Which had taken him so long to place. So long to accept.

But his soul stirs when he hears this voice. The voice is attuned to his essence. To what he has always and will always be.

I do not know where I am.

She needs him. He can help Her. He needs to follow the voice. He need not lose Her again.

He runs through the ruins of Naztrum Ognis. Through cracked streets and ravaged mosaics. He jumps between collapsed bridges and toppled spires. He weaves through mansions and galleries caved in by Divine wrath. His feet blister from heat which eats away at his polished shoes.

Hurry.

Please.

The voice carries him to the very edge of the Holy City, past burning meadows and smoking forests.

He peers to the bottom of the Cosmos. The end of that endless golden sea which now vomits wild waves which swallow the continental islands whole. He notices a faint shimmering. A miniscule crack in the Father´s flawless construct. A tear into the complete unknown. Where the voice emerges from.

While he ponders his next course of action, a voice sounds behind Preximius.

The First Prophet, unharmed and unburned by the chaos surrounding them all, calls to the Master. Her robes and cloths almost spirited away by the unyielding winds, revealing branches and roots instead of skin as he expects.

The Master ignores the detail and asks, for he knows she is one to understand the Cosmos more deeply than anyone else he can consult.

Why was the Lady´s death so delayed? When he felt it on the very instant the deed was done? Why had the Star waited for so long before awakening? Did his Lady remain alive in some form? Was She the voice which beckoned him to jump into the unexplored depths of the Cosmos?

"Time flows in its own unique ways, Master. What transpires in mere minutes outside, on the realm of mortals, may take days or weeks to be reflected on the Cosmos.

You must understand, it is merely a protective measure. It allows us Prophets to devise mitigation, should happenings prove less than satisfactory. We must study and analyze what effects we will allow to take place upon the Blessed.

Wise you proved, to hide the truth of such an unsightly act from those who were not ready to accept it.

The revelries of the Cosmos cannot be interrupted by the acts of unworthy fools, I am sure you would agree."

The Prophet´s three golden eyes stare into the destruction wrought by the awakening of the Star, a wistful sheen covering their luster.

"The damage wrought by the awakening of the Star is as expected, but we did not foresee it taking place in the middle of such celebration.

An error, for the stirrings of the Trinity are beyond even us."

Her stare turns to the child Preximius holds in his arms. Her eyes wash over Emma´s unconscious, damaged purity.

She places a gloved hand on the girl's forehead. A gesture of comfort and sympathy, even if the Master cannot help but notice red thorns pushing from underneath the fabric, expecting release.

He hides these observations as he hid his Lady´s death, even if he is unsure deception will prove effective over one with absolute dominance over the Cosmos.

"We will rebuild the Cosmos. No harm will come upon any of the Blessed. Burned they are, yes, but such is not permanent. This is simply an.. awakening the Star has gifted us.

For too long have we basked in our own enjoyment. For too long have we neglected our duty to help the Father Cross, instead relegating most of the labor to the chosen outside.

This will change.

I know how you yearn to return. To avenge Her death.

You will have your wish, this I swear.

We will Cross, and I will mobilize this ocean of trillions to further this cause."

Her eyes turn to stare at Preximius´s inquisitive look.

"I know what you have heard. Faint whispers plucked from apocalyptic winds"

I know what you have heard. Faint whispers plucked from apocalyptic winds.

The Prophet begins to explain the question which throbs most urgently within Preximius´s mind, but the Master cannot feel but hear something speaking alongside the Prophet. Something faint, as if attempted to be silenced. Something which ignores the wishes of a Prophet.

"You must know that these are merely byproducts of a Saint´s expiration. Echoes of last thoughts which haunt those whose hearts are intimately intertwined with their memory."

You must know that these are merely byproducts of a Saint´s expiration. Echoes of last thoughts which haunt those whose hearts are intimately intertwined with their memory.

Something beyond the authority of a Prophet. Beyond one who speaks for the Father Himself. Something which speaks with mockery of voice. Mimicry of she who attempts to explain.

Something beyond voice.

Beyond the necessity to communicate.

"She is dead. Not in perpetuity, for She will be remade, as the Father is eternal. But we must mourn all the same. If you wish to head the ceremonies, I can grant that request. You knew this incarnation more intimately than anyone else we could call for this grim, yet loving task."

She is dead. Not in perpetuity, for She will be remade, as the Father is eternal. But we must mourn all the same. If you wish to head the ceremonies, I can grant that request. You knew this incarnation more intimately than anyone else we could call for this grim, yet loving task.

Something beyond sentience.

Beyond the weakness of thought.

Beyond the redundancy of reason.

Beyond divine mandate.

Beyond his God.

"Come with me, Preximius. We have ponderous labor ahead of us. The Star´s mandates have landed on one of the High Temple´s spires. Much is to change for vengeance to be fed."

Come with me, Preximius. We have ponderous labor ahead of us. The Star´s mandates have landed on one of the High Temple´s spires. Much is to change for vengeance to be fed."

He cannot ignore what he sees and hears. Thorns begin to pierce the Prophet´s gloves, as roots burst from her robes, anchoring her to the burning ground which disintegrates into dark gas before the blackened tendrils.

Ground which had valiantly braved the cleansing fires of Omnima, helpless before the consumption of a hungering plant. As unnatural veins glow from the black roots, sucking in the dark gas ravenously.

Roots which he dares not touch, as the Prophet extends a hand which has quickly sprouted blood red petals and leaves. Her three golden eyes falling off her face, pushed out by growing flowered bulbs. Bulbs he can see outlines inside of.

Outlines of people.

People who scream.

Their chorus joined by the unmistakable screeches of his Lady.

ANYONE

PLEASE

"Why do you hesitate, Master?"

That girl smells sweet, Master.

He throws himself off the edge. This is not the First Prophet, but a monster which has somehow infected the Cosmos, seeking to stray him from rescuing his Lady.

Emma tightly grasped in vice-like hands, the pair descend into the depths of the Cosmos, unnavigated.

Hidden from prying eyes.

The First Prophet does not expect the Master´s reaction. His face is pallid, drained from the Star´s vigor which has surely washed over him.

The hand she cordially extended, which most can only dream of grasping, denied as if it were poison.

She watches from the edge as Preximius and the girl drop, quickly reaching the tear which has formed, rare aftermath of Omnima´s awakening. Small,an almost imperceivable window into the realms hidden below.

She knew he would be the only one to hear the whispers. By orders from His Wisdom, she and her fellow Prophets delayed the event for as long as the Star permitted.

Not even a Saint can hold back one of the Three once they have stirred.

She hoped the life the Sectoid lived inside Naztrum Ognis would be enough to convince him to stay and ignore those tantalizing words which stirred his heart so.

It was… exceedingly rare for a soul to wish to leave the Holy City. She admired the strength of his wish and his conviction to pursue it, but she wondered if it would be wise to let him fall.

To hinder the freedom of one of the Blessed was to break one of the conditions set by the Father upon all Prophets.

The Cosmos is not a tyranny, where the Blessed are controlled. Dictated, as to what they should and should not do.

The Cosmos is freedom. It is a realm where one can explore all possibilities denied by the harshness of physical reality.

To deny a Blessed his wishes would be antithetical to her role as Prophet or that of the Cosmos itself.

And yet, she could not feel but wonder if she should stop him.

If his journey would jeopardize His Wisdom´s plan.

A plan she knew existed, but was not privy to its exact details.

A plan which would somehow negate the damage inflicted by the Imperator. The death of a Saint, a catastrophe which could easily jeopardize this cycle´s labor. Even if Omnima herself was now at the reins.

She had faith in her Saint, and was instructed to help the Cosmos heal once the wound was revealed.

But Preximius was a variable.

And a dangerous one, should he discover what lies at the bottom of the Cosmos.

In his grief, guided by the last winds exhaled by Saintly lungs, he could discover It.

And what would she do, should this unthinkable eventuality come to pass?

How would she guide the Cosmos through this?

This secret spanning eons?

Perhaps it was best if she simply eliminated the risk altogether.

Forbid Preximius from being such a variable in the first place.

She raises a hand, intending to pull the Master back.

But a command from above stops her.

"Allow him to proceed. Observe, and report to me any developments of interest."

Unexpected, but acceptable.

His Wisdom had spoken, and she would obey.

For she is an instrument in this grand design, and as an instrument she is content to remain.

As the Master and the girl slip through the small crack, the First Prophet makes her bid to return to the City. Much rebuilding is to be done, Omnima´s commands to be fulfilled.

For the Star demands a Cosmos filled with warriors, not an eternity of fattened aristocrats and hedonists.

As she turns around to return, she notices something.

Something which alarms her greatly.

Under her feet, where she had levitated as she sought to convince the Master to stay, lay a hole.

She raises a hand, intending to weave the essence of the Cosmos and remake this small wound.

But the hole could not be filled.

The essence was gone.

Eaten.

Only one thing could do such damage to the Father´s eternity.

She hurries back to her chambers as quickly as she can. The chaos of Naztrum Ognis and the charred bodies of the Blessed but an afterthought.

She has to speak to His Wisdom urgently.

For It had sampled beyond Its right.

Beyond limits which were monumentally difficult to set.

Which they pleaded daily for It to follow.

It was stirring.

The thing which could not awaken.

Which could not smell the trillion morsels, living blissfully unaware, above.

End of Telepathic Transfer