#god!cor

Alcor dreams.

 Long has it been since any have recalled his time as a demon, remembered one who was feared by the masses, a night time terror who asked for sweets as sacrifice, abhorred the bloodshed of children as he claimed himself as their protector. Or was, above all else, a twelve year old boy, curious towards all supernatural, unfortunate enough to fall into the clutches of a particular triangular demon.

 The twenty-first century exists nowhere but with him, hidden behind the doors of his shack, all handles worn where he’s gazed upon memories, time again and again. The triangle hardly a myth beyond the whispers of demons. Those few who remember, those wise enough not cross paths with the dreambender, daren’t invoke his name.

 Neither do they of Alcor’s. For the boy transcended has ascended even demonhood itself. A higher state of being, he reaches from eons upon eons of steady building power until the abyss of black flakes away to reveal gold, and a god emerges from a cocoon, long since having left the summoning circle behind. The god can craft reality to his whims merely by thought alone, scoop through reality as easy as the waters of a freshwater pond, let it trickle out through his fingertips, send ripples as he picks out life’s greatest treasures, shining specks of life glinting beneath the surface. Stitch its fabric together as he so sees fit, using techniques taught from the first of his Twin Stars, her guiding light as bright as ever, as even past death her soul still thrives.

 He is the shepherd to both this universe and his flock.

 Yet, he chooses to watch. To wait. To sleep.

 His very touch burns. Burns the ground where he scoops, leaves the water as steam, the pool a crater in a molten wasteland, bubbling, boiling rock that’s putty in his hands. The fabric chars, the threads slip, and the colours bleached by his sun.

 He glows gold. But no one ever told him he could glow too bright. 

 His sun blinds. 

 And so he sleeps. The universe plays out in his dreams, him, for all his power, reduced to a spectator. The universe is like glass. A shatterable, delicate, fragile thing he can yearn for but not touch.

 For he is no longer human and never can pretend as such again. There is no lie to live in anymore. He is as he is.

 For better or for worse.

 Alcor dreams. Beautiful dreams, star speckled skies, rolling hills and civilisations spread across galaxies and built up from the ground. Lustrous planets of lapping oceans, exotic and simply magical flora, languages of tongues he’s never learnt but understands every word of. 

 He sees all.

 Knows all.

 As he watches new terrains thrive, he’s witness to those which depart, of the genius loci who fade into oblivion. Planets of ash, and planets of life alike fall victim to the works of the universe, survive so long, have so much history only to be engulfed by black holes, one step into the spiralling abyss and nothing really matters. They’re wiped clean, a smear on reality’s glass, forever falling and crumbling through the vortex where even time strays from. The black holes are the end, never seen coming, never there at all.

 Where they end up is a mystery some never solve. But Alcor sees all. Knows all.

 There is no mystery in the universe to him now.

 Alcor dreams. And his dreams are of solar systems encircling their suns, their orbits their way of life. A journey planets repeat in mechanical motion as their sole purpose until their course is hindered, and paths destroyed. Planets are brought to life as they travel, crafted from those glorious burning suns so close to death, until as the eons pass, the planet strays too close to the sun, and the fire giant decimates the planet by too close an embrace.

 The universe is Alcor’s planet, and he the dying sun.

 His touch may burn, but he knows it’s nothing infinite. Nothing lasts forever, not even he.

 The god makes his decision.

 But the time is not now.

 Alcor dreams. He dreams of the stars as they implode, of dwarf stars as they snuff themselves into oblivion. Of planets as life signatures dwindle, and burn themselves out, their flames bright but candle wicks oh so short.

 There is war, and there is not. Metal husks float as derby, lost and forgotten as disregarded carcasses of battles where the victor is none. Space is a wasteland in that regard, a place for the unremembered. A graveyard of infinite stretch. There is hope, there is hopelessness and survivors, they scramble from the rubble and pull themselves up. Wounds they tend to with nurturing care, lick them clean and cling to one another, unaware of what they are survivors of. They live to see another day and work with what they have.

 Life rebuilds. It always does. Apocalypses may rain terror, but shoots and sprouts cannot be trampled. Until in the end, when the dust clears, even they are struggling.

 Nothing lasts forever. Not humanity, not Al-V. Not anything.

 It’s a cycle. The universe’s will.

 So he waits.

 Alcor dreams. And the universe scatters into thousands, tiny particles of everything and anything zooming across the vast expanse of space, its reaches infinite, its walls nonexistent, and the debris fly at a constant pace. 

 His universe crumbles, its last legs stumbling, and Alcor knows. He is ready.

 His waiting game is finally at an end.

 The god opens his eyes, gold and all seeing, awake for the first time in untold eons — there is no need for time here, not in this place where there’s an endless loop of nothing — and as he breathes, he breathes back in new life to the barren canvas.

 He is the shepherd and guides his new flock of stars. He is the visionary and sees a new world. He is the musician and lets his universe sing. He is the painter and makes it so.

 Where there was destruction, there is creation, his power melding as one. He’s supernova, brighter than bright as he sets to work, a cosmic force of unparalleled energy. He shines, and there is no one there left to blind. He paints this new world, scatters the essence of his raw power like a fine mist, gives it a life he shan’t live to see, but it doesn’t worry him.

 He’s not felt emotion in so long.

 He has not felt much of anything at all.

 Alcor is awake, but soon again he is to dream. Of a new universe, an old soul brought back anew.

 Of new hopes and dreams. Of new lives. Of his flock embracing their new existence.