#narcissta

Upon returning, The First One looked at their companion and confidant with such sadness. Speaking though they know no response could be given. “Dearest friend, it is with sadness that it must come to pass. This form may never see again the glory of what is here, in the truest sense. And such sacrifices are cast with the weight of duty. Not that this form ever met with such brilliance. Oh that the reflections thou cast upon this form should be upheld with such nobility. That service and time. Pitiful. Perhaps in the next time, forgiveness granted. But in the result, all shall be seen. For this form knows what must be done, even if it harbors some sadness to the action.”

The secret was cycling, yes this great knew that long ago. But perhaps it was the wrong place first attempted. That this world be left purely elemental, when so long ago the Divine was much more akin to the nature and hiding spot that souls be left protected. There was only so much left abandoned that they could take before subjugation. Return back to that safe place was the only chance, but what could suffer the cost? To be built up again without course to return? It was a waste, a malaise as Water had spoken. Though the cure would not be easy, a direct dissection of the promise made to companions so long ago. But now was the choice sitting before them, no longer allowed to be ignored or forgotten.

Change is our course, our duty. And so we were cast it without hesitation. The god was merely choosing to deny this, to prove luxury undeserved for friends they could not keep in same form. For how quickly and forgotten those bonds were, the small strands that weave all together with that great god that saw the true value of souls so very long ago. “Perhaps the form is not so much the struggle, rather, the change.” The god uttered. A moment of clarity now cast, and duty set in place.

Another set of Divine would be needed. Those to take charge over Stucci in the same fashion that The First One had set the four elemental gods to. For the great one knew it was better to hold such dedicated forces. But it would come again at a cost, as those first four had. The infinite power was gone, and so too shall infinite knowledge. The First One accepted this sacrifice, planting upon their final marks of memory onto the body of Moth. Small spots, denoting eyes but never quite of the same snuff to the optic sense. Mere facsimiles of the real thing, another memory marked plain in the same fashion those wings granted so long ago were. With the gentlest hand possible, the First One returned their companion to the mundane realm.

Their safety assured, the great god took a final look to their domain, absorbing if possible all that might be known. All happiness, sadness, all actions contained in their choices and made the final determination of worth. With claw or hand, perhaps another apparatus entirely, for who are we to know the exact tools of a god so great, the god removed their own multicolored eyes, tearing them from their Divine form. A mere moment to shape them, and it was done. Two new gods created in the images of that which could never be known or defined in the same way as themselves.

Oh, the first images witnessed? Why should that matter? So long ago, nothing more than fleeting images, more a dream than the reality it once was. Nothing. Everything. One could not even conjure a mental space capable of such imagery. How boring. It needed to go. And so it did!

Even if one was around for such things, why fret over the unknown? Is it worth the stress of seeing that which could inspire fear or corruption? Might the temptation and thrill of discovery be quite the drug? What quaint concerns. How feeble and temporary. Almost charming.

Beware, Precious Living. Memories are tender things, at least for ones trapped in such illusory flesh. The neurological chemicals that devise such experience often get the finer details wrong. Be careful how much one lends credence to such chemicals. So much to get warped, so much to get wrong. How tedious. Shame one lacks the infinite spread of perfection to recount the days. But, by the by, no one to share the stories with. Not a word remains for anyone. Save the Beloved.

--

A raven watched idly as the young man worked steadily with his hands, pulling a plane along a stretch of mangrove wood. Each pass shaving off a little bit more wood, smoothing the surface to what aimed to be a perfect cylinder. A staff worthy of possession. The bird preened gently, adjusting feathers with a careful touch, eye never quite letting sight of the young man go. Long coils of silver hair spun down his back, new, unusual. Not quite the anticipated outcome. The new waters were uncharted, course being set far adrift by winds unpredicted.

Mitchell, the young man, groaned in exhaustion. It was hot and sticky. Hotter and stickier than any day the swamp had given before, and that was saying something. He had already peeled off his shirt, just trying to do his best to breathe. It was hard, harder still due to the pain. Though he was healed from… the previous night’s events, the god did something to him. He was older, muscles twisted and formed to a shape he shouldn’t have met for another ten years. His mind didn’t quite match everything his newfound strength could do, and the clumsiness was already showing. He had slipped the plane off several times now, lines crooked and frail. Gotta be perfect. He grunted at the thought, wiping sweat off his brow before continuing, trying to ignore his body for a few minutes more. The magic coursing through him now… unlike anything he’d had before. On one hand, it terrified him. On the other…

Time was growing short, the sun was setting and it felt like a storm was on the horizon. Last thing he needed was to be coated in mud or swamp scum… the sweat on his back already was bad enough. Nausea roiled, he wanted to throw up, but couldn’t. The bird wouldn’t let him.

Laying the plane down, he grabbed sand paper, smoothing out the sides, trying to get everything to feel right. Would it ever? It’s a sham. Like this’ll help.

“It will.” The god’s voice echoed in his ear. “Conduit for the inexperience.”

“Yeah, yeah, get the hell outta my head.” He blew a strong breeze at the bird, who merely side stepped the gust of wind. Ain’t even ruffled a feather.

“A noble attempt.” The voice didn’t come from the raven, but Mitch couldn’t help looking at it through squinted eyes. “Perhaps efforts are better spent on focus?”

He stuck his tongue out. “Ain’t ya got better things to? More lives to ruin? People to kill?”

“Certainly.” The bird adjusted its footing on the branch.

“Then go?”

Without answering, the god watched with heightened attention, watching the movement of the mage’s hands. A twinge of the familiar ran through him, though it was all too late until he recognized why. Brother, why stare?

All at once, he was in his realm. The reflective white flooring, echoing with each step, dark skies looming with the occasional flashes of electricity crossing across myriad red silk ribbons. Souls a float across the darkness, all interweaved and connected. A beautiful room of stranded lights. All was as it should be, the sweet humming of in tune chords echoed off in the distance as if a lullaby were playing. The only disruption being the form of Narcissta, ink dark skin and brilliant white hair, in opposition to himself, cradling something between her fingers.

Hands. What has happened?

A flaw, destroyed. Her voice unspoken, responded through his being, words unneeded for two so close. She leaned back, revealing the small shattered fragments off the tip of a soul, cracked and splintered like untempered glass.

How? When? Panic seeped in. How had he missed that? When could he have looked away? All felt right, but sparks discharged loosely around him. He rushed in, trying to lay hands on the pitiful thing, anything to assist.

Calm. Her monotone voice pushed back gently, begging for a bit more space. All will be well. Hold.

A twitch of her finger, hands closing around tightly. There were sounds of knitting and tearing, perhaps even welding and cutting, a cacophony but beautiful all the same. She stepped back, all the marks and cracks gone, fresh and clean as the day first formed. Pathetic to even have reached such a point. She mumbled, handing the thing off to her brother.

Not pathetic, these forms were here when needed most. The god hastily clutched it to his chest, as if something else could injure it here.

Narcistta gave her brother a final passing glance, softening just slightly. Perhaps there are truths to that. Accept apologies, if one can fathom it. A hint of cheeky foolishness crossed him, the same feeling brought him back, returning sight to the young man once more. The same expression.

Time had slipped away, and a proper staff rested between his fingers. Already setting course to crave the intricate runes required into the wooden handle. All it lacked was wrapping and a locus. The God of the End stepped out from the shadows, a hand reaching towards Mitch, but didn’t manifest before him, his hand not quite reaching the new mage. How? His fingers reached into the void plucking out something precious, a single white feather. The plume danced in the air of the swamp, swaying to some unheard rhythm, but it felt right, pulling away from the End and pointing to Mitch. It belonged here. Why?

No answer came. Staring for just a moment more, Adamsa Frisay pulled out one of his own feathers, entering reality as Mitch stood up slowly, having finished his laborious work.

…Why ask the question? It is natural to ponder the Beginning. Though speech of her has dwindled, she is ever present in the eye of this form. Perhaps it is mere regret at what was done, but the Precious Living feel in their hearts a guilt, even now. Millennia and eons later. This form can understand. But not comprehend.

To speak well of her is to temporarily give shape, though no longer can these limbs reach out for divinity in the sense of passion displayed. No. Only faint reflections of what was. What can no longer be. So, speak of domain, speak of course. Abstraction, for this form cannot explain what either the Beginning or End do. The domain, stucci, cannot be spoken in the tongues of living. Too complex, too simple. To be a part of everything and nothing. To be defined simply by another, that which one cannot be. How confusing an existence. Flux. Movement. Her brother, the End has worked hard to pick up slack. How interesting. How futile.

The Beginning was soft spoken, not very pronounced, but her presence was immaculate. The grace of the sunrise, the first breath of air, the kiss of a new lover. Entrancing, but harsh as the others. The frost of winter, the heartbreak of the first day alone. Her spade cuts deep, turning new earth. The route for all the move. Her shrine, white and crisp atop the marble columns of the great Mount Papaver, now lies asleep, covered in dust. Seldom few are the sad offerings, tell of what value is there in worshiping a corpse? Does a god still hold sacredness when expired? Why are they worshipped at all? Never asked. Never demanded. Never ordered. ... In spite of it all, this form still finds itself there from time to time. Alone. Regretful.

Funny then, how the Beginning and the End were made last. Perhaps therein lays the flaw. Shame it was not seen. Shame this world cannot rest. Neither can this form.

--

Aelita brushed her hand across the black obsidian archway. Her duty demanded the focus, but the shrine located at the deepest portion of the Rhoeas Valley never brought much comfort. The jagged rock formations and aggressive clouds that plagued the region, threating storms but never breaking, were the sign of the new god who had taken residence there. Little comfort taken at the sight of the myriad red flowers blooming over every possible flat surface, but something about them still brought the sensation of peace. As if whatever this “God of the End” had in store was something kind, a release. Fear eroded away once she passed through the entrance, but the cold stone still made her shiver. This place would take more getting used to.

The outer sanctum of the shrine was simple. An altar adorned with the flowers and various leaves. Strong smells of tea and honey flooded her nose as she briefly corrected the arrangement. A few red silks hung loosely from above, stubbornly refusing to remain tied to the columns they should be attached to. She bit her lip and let her fingers to the work, listening for any change in the hall. Few visitors had come, she had heard the rumblings of fear at this god and the concerns of the folks around her. A few had threated newly rotten vegetables at her for her service to this place, a rudeness she couldn’t defend. Still she understood, and merely chose to avoid open streets in the sun. Still, the parchment folded in her cloak from the Order seemed heavy. Though she was not deigned to read it. The message was spoken to her though, just enough for her status.

No noises. Aelita mused internally. Though she perked up at the sudden static in the air, a low and gentle melody sinking through her very skin. Indications the god had returned to the inner chamber. She moved to the back wall of the outer sanctum, drawing her finger along a carving and whispering the blessing. A crimson glow bubbled out the black rock following just behind her finger. Her body felt light, and closing her eyes, she slid her fingers through the stone. Pressing forward, her body followed suit into the private realm.

Out of respect, she quickly flipped the fabric of her veil over her face, the dark cloth blocking her sight near completely, only the vaguest outlines of columns to mark her path forward. Some red from the rug below her feet slipped through if she was looking down, but the energy in the room made it nauseating to do so. She folded her hands into here robes, doing her best to cross the room, single step by single step. Gentle laughter filled her ears, her chest, her soul as the god spotted her. She froze in place, and slowly dropped to her knees.

The sound of bells filled her ears as the god spoke. “Aelita, starlight and shine. Once more gracing with appearance, kind.” Wind fluttered around her, the gravitas of his magnitude standing before her, the hair on her arms raising in response to the electrical forces.

“Your Reverence,” She bowed her body, pressing her forehead to the floor for a moment before returning to her kneeling position. “I am here on business from-“

Laughter, bubbling through her. “Business, pleasure, work. All one. How strong.” A force of a hand under her chin, soft, gentle, lifted her head up. Tension in her muscles melted. “So dedicated. Fortunate soul. This form offers delight in lack of distress. Rest assured, all is due in cycle and time. Nothing needless. Understood?” She kept her mouth shut, waiting for permission to speak. Though told of how strange the gods could be, no words could explain what her opinions of this god were. Only here for so little time, yet it felt as though she knew him forever. “Pereax, this form has much to say and do. Distinctions to make. Balance, made and-“

“Delivered course.” A high pitched whirling slipped in from behind her, and the room grew colder, frost gently coating her skin. The monotonous voice continued. “Adamsa Frisay, astur novun.”

Sparks coursed through the stone, crossing a few crystals of hematite, lighting the room enough to grant vague outlines of their mystical, nonsensical forms even from behind Aelita’s veil. She quickly bowed lower, trembling slightly under the pressure of both gods. The God of the End spoke excitedly. “Fori! Narcissta Priasi torum, vu.” The language of the gods cut her ears, the notes fusing and falling around her in an intoxicating display. Her body began trembling.

“Ah, forgive these forms, Pereax.” Her god requested quickly, placing a solid hand on her back. “Sister, be gentle, this one is cared.”

A chill ran up Aelita’s spine. “So it would seem.” The flat, emotionless voice seemed almost mechanical, being generated word for word in the moment. “Trivial and small. No means. How cruel.”

“Varrum. Discussions carried in private.” He reminded gently, before perking up again. “Aelita, this form notices thou only enters this place for purposes. Please excuse our intrusions to thine tasks. What words are trapped in the flesh of tongues?”

“Yes. Break silence. It is unbecoming.” The goddess agreed coldly.

“As you request, Your Reverences.” The scent of flowers and ozone filled her nose as she sat up once more, the warmth of her deity’s hand taking hers gently. “I have on my person a request from my Order, a correspondence. A meeting. They require both of your presences, should you be willing to grant it.” Her free hand fished out the parchment, holding it out between her fingers. “I would assume a similar message is being taken to your shrine as well, Alabaster one.”

The chilled touch of something not quite flesh, not quite plant took it swiftly from her. “How bold.” The goddess stated.

“How interesting.” The god agreed.

“To make a display...”

“Seems quite welcoming…”

“Or perhaps heralding?”

“Causation follows through, sister.”

“No matter the course?”

“Unlikely. Odds placed solidly against such things.”

“But forever the chance remains.”

The two went back and forth for some time, Aelita struggling to make out the hidden parts of their conversation. The extremes of their duet making the walls of the room vibrate in time with their frequencies, her own body trapped between the ebb and flow.

“Fear is the potency of ire, brother.”

“Then what better a way to change that?” He countered swiftly, almost gleefully. “How would this form change that by remaining unknowable? Efforts must be made.”

A certain shift in the air and their music died down. “Very well.” The goddess agreed. “Chances made forever taken. Pereax, return to your Order.” Her emotionless command forcing Aelita to her feet. “Tell them to be prepared. Dawn breaking quickly.”

“O-of course, Your Reverence.” Aelita bowed her head once more before turning on her heel to leave the gods to their privacy. A terrible weight fell in the pit of her stomach, as if she had done something wrong. Though, everything was carried out to all specifications. She bit her lip and slipped through the stone, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here.

The God of the End watched as she vanished, finally turning to The Goddess of the Beginning and muttering excitedly. “It will turn over.”

“A new era.” The goddess agreed, though even her brother could not make out her meaning. She vanished in a flutter of white feathers, leaving him to his shrine alone.

The Children do not prophesize, especially not the Beginning and the End. Such feeble constructs are beneath them. Words without purpose are easily manipulated by the Precious Living. The beautiful souls this form has spent countless eons witnessing, growing, changing, becoming. A pleasure to experience what life is through those that can live! And even so, it should not have been done. In that, this form has erred. In the frivolity of experience, it neglected to ensure The Children were prepared for their duties. It merely sent them on their way, with simple instructions. Obvious tasks really, they were NAMED for them after all. But this form never told them the specifications needed. What the elements were. Why such Energies were important. What the Beginning and the End meant for the overall flow and rhythm of the Song. Nor did this form relay that to the Precious Living. Such mistakes scar the world still.

The Precious Living did the impossible. Obviously it was possible, as they had done it, but the task most gruesome still rings inside this essence, if only to mock it. The End frightened the Precious Living, a new affliction to their bodies was now rampant; the cessation and kind grip of death, the most gruesome of the End and his many duties. A gift this form created for them, for the flesh was a trap of their souls that needed to return. Such elements harsh and near corruption unless returned to the Song, they could not last eternally locked. The End did their job, and such the Precious Living steeled their gift. The Precious living spoke their own prophesies into reality, weaving words into Will and metal. Creative beasts, this form holds such admiration, a pity. Words whispered in shaken voices grew to chatter, and stronger still to shouts, until finally a scream.

The Children do not prophesize, as these words would be manipulated. Hardened against them. Something dreadful. Were it not for the Beginning, the End would have been destroyed. And here we find the world, a slowly dying sham. How curious. The End fumbling and failing to be the Beginning, and the Precious Living none the wiser. Waiting on the prophesied day the End comes to claim them for their crimes. Impossible. If only the Precious Living knew just how much they were loved by the End. To lose all and not cast vitriol as the Elements did in retaliation. To know love like that. Impossible.

--

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Each word was uttered through tears, hot and wet and now seeping through the fabric Dr. Rosalune’s scrubs as her patient’s husband wrapped his arms around her. She bristled slightly, doing her best to keep a soft smile on her lips, as was good bedside manner, but in the many centuries of her medical practice the sudden bursts of emotion towards her never got any easier to manage. “I can’t believe it.”

The man’s body heat was starting to grate against her cold skin; so she politely patted his back and began to pull away gently, only to be met with the resistance of his hard grip. “It is merely my duty.” She pursed her lips, determining now was the time for sobering truth. “He is far from out of the woods. Recovery will not be easy, and there will be much time spent in physical therapy before he will be back to normal.” Should he ever get there. She left that last bit to herself, no need to be that harsh.

Finally releasing her from his joyous bear hug, the man nodded quickly, tears still lining his cheeks. “Right, you’re right.” A rough hand did its best to wipe them away, finding its own futile war. “But I’ll be there with ‘im, every step.”

“Good.” The doctor acknowledged firmly as she adjusted her hair and clothes back to proper form. “He’ll need the support. But for now, just let him recover. It will be a while before he wakes up from anesthesia, and even then he might not be fully there. Give him grace.” The man nodded quickly, still working his hands over his face in some effort to regain his dignity, though such things were not needed here of all places. “Very well, if you’ll excuse me.” Dr. Rosalune bowed gently and turned on her heel, not waiting for a response. The nurses could answer the rest of his questions, should he even have any.

Her steps were silent as she quickly turned the down the hall, listening with sharpened senses to the gentle rhythms of Sacred Lancet. Her hospital was a well-oiled machine, as per her design. Even still moments of doubt would linger and creep into the corners of her mind. A flash of heat through her veins, not the same searing ones of hunger or rage, but one more continual, almost caustic. A simmer to stop her mid-step as she crossed the threshold of her office. It is impossible to save your life. I’ve merely succeeded in delaying your death. She closed the door swiftly behind her. Adamsa Frisay, do you hate me? Who am I to alter course of who lives and dies, throwing a blood soaked hand into that which was never mine to decide?

Slowly, her fingers turned the bolt, locking the room before she sat down at her desk, sinking into the large, upholstered office chair. The familiar plush surface offered little comfort. Still, she squared away a portion of paperwork on her desk, just to keep her hands busy. She shook her head. I must be doing something correctly, he hasn’t come for me yet. The moon knows we’ve met many times in the OR, he’s had opportunities. My own failures and lives lost are a sure sign of that. Perhaps that is my payment from the Silent one. The reminder I am not him. Drawing an unneeded breath, she pulled out a pen and settled herself to continue her work, a surefire way to strike at anxiety. Mumbling idly to the air as the red ink struck the first page. “Perhaps it is to your liking then, a whim of fate. I am a lone slave to balance. Moon, help me.”

At the top of Mount Papaver, Dominic sat in contemplation of the Beginning, the lessons that the Goddess had given in the short time they had been together. For all her blessings and promises, there were few that had come to pass yet, merely the naming of dawn and the beginnings of these new seasons. But perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all she wanted. After far too long, there was a new growth, a large budding flower that bloomed before him, before the goddess stepped forth and looked at her attendant with her calm, sapphire eye. “Do not start.” Her flat voice began without taking a pause. “For there are no answers here that can be explained. This form is the opposite of the End, and cannot speak to the End and what is done. That is the domain required. Perform the duties assigned, and be content. There is well enough without some trifling.”

“Of course, dear goddess.” He bowed in reverence, trying to absorb every word. Though the meanings were still high above him. “But what should be said? There are people counting on me for answers and hope.”