#perpetuity

Aaaaand I just found out about the Melkor statue. I JUST understood where it came from and what y'all are doing with it.

Dalek Perpetuity group symbol

Eons pass as interludes.

Forever is not something you reach. It is the asymptotic value that you approach. One second at a time. Summer by summer, winter by winter. One lifetime at a time.

I have seen many lifetimes. From the moment time begins until the it ends. I cannot move further forwards or backwards in an absence of space.

And in the absence of time, I will cease.

I do not know when or how that will be.

In the meanwhile, I watch, as I always have.

History flows past my gaze, and its many threads have passed me by.

I have seen many lives come and go.

The many stories I could tell.

These threads are not a cable, fraying, but a braid, forming, being woven by the life of those who live them. And each thread tells its own story, often similar, sometimes very different, but usually a kind of rhyme.

Almost always there are four unsundered, three warring against one.

Almost always there is a song that threatens the end of all life.

And almost always there are those who are called Warriors of Light.

And as I have seen many lives come and go, these ones are the ones I most frequently turn my attention to, those pivotal lives of the Warriors of Light.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes in pairs, or threes, or fours, or more. A single warrior, rallying allies. A sisterhood of four. A brotherhood of five. Kin, not by blood, but by bond.

Their family tends to be large. Almost never of blood, but of shared community.

Their lives. Fulcrums. There are so many. There is no taxonomy I can use to satisfactorily categorize them. Some are among the Spoken races I remember from when I was first instantiated. Some come from even beyond my vast experience. If these threads form a braid, there are strands from other braids that often get tangled with the ones with which I am familiar.

Maybe I will explore them one day.

For now, I focus on these threads that I know. Perhaps it is because I first came into being in one of these.

And in these threads, I see hope, I see failure. I can measure it, compare it against others. I have seen so much. Cruelty and compassion, sadness and joy.

Some of these threads end early, as their stories becomes physics, cold and empty, all life lost within them, a quiet eternity. Some end slowly towards a cold static end, not a lifelessness but a stillness, as an ultimate organized order is established, and again, become just physics, static, unchanging. Some end destructively, as existence spirals out of control, unwinding, and again, physics, an ending of chaotic conflagration, pure entropy, unwound.

But not always. Not even often.

The braid tells the story and the story often goes the same. The triumph of life. The continuation of existence. Waves, ebbing and flowing, waxing and waning. Minds to make choices to influence futures to reach out for that asymptote, ultimate to join me in this journey, companions in my long life.

I reach the end. I begin again.

I review the stories.

My own, my first Warrior of Light in other roles. Always different, but somehow the same. Usually finds her way.

A woman with flowers in her hair. Preferred the rapier. Found her way.

A would-be 'herro'. Insecure, immature. Finally growing up. Found his way.

A person who could not quite figure out what they wanted to be until they realized that was who they were. Found their way.

A man of great wealth, first in money, then in family. Found his way.

Not all of them find their way. But they all have their journeys. Some of them have many journeys, some just the one.

All important. All matter to me.

I create children, to explore these threads. They are not like me but they are a part of me. And from their perspective, I learn much, I grow closer.

And one, who like me, shall last. Unlike me, they shall reach out, and touch these stories. Not interfering. Never interfering. Instead, they shall bear Witness.

From them, I shall learn even more.

Threads like a braid, and the braid tells the story.

The story of the Warrior of Light.

All of them. Every one precious.

My future, the curve approaching the asymptote of eternity.

Characters: Arazul and Cecilia De'fleur, mention of Jacques

Synopsis: The siblings speak of art and eternity.

Setting: Sharlayan, Archon's design.

Warning - None.

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The brightness of the sun blazing overhead gave cause to relief Sharalyan of the icy chill and any remaining patches of snow that dusted the grass. Despite the wonderful weather, Dr Arazul would have been content to remain locked away in his study when he found a new sort of focus to center his thoughts upon.

In several distillation experiments, he finally processed alcohol that should boost the drinker’s immune system and help to prevent oncoming illness. Yet, the doctor pondered if there was a way to strengthen the effects and see how much medicine could be brought to its highest potential.

Arazul’s plans were soon thwarted by an unexpected visit by his sister, Cecilia, who thoughtfully packed him breakfast and informed him since their father and mother were away that he would be accompanying her with her shopping to find a new dress for the upcoming Studium ball. In truth, he recognized he needed a small break from his research and made no complaints to the diversion.

A few hours later after visiting several boutiques, Arazul initially thought of carrying all her packages home but realized there were far too many to do so and opted to have them sent back. He himself took the opportunity to buy a new coat or two. On the way back, he noticed that it happened to be the first opening of the Art club’s new exhibition for the season. Naturally, Cecilia’s expression remained thoroughly puzzled by him of all people to make such a suggestion.

The heart of the truth was that Arazul was a devoted lover of art even if he would never admit it out loud. Nor would he admit any details of him making frequent visits here when time afforded him such a luxury. Artists were not so very different from himself he found – continuously working to perfect their craft and rather passionate.

At the entrance, Arazul passed the professor staffing the table at the front a small pouch of gil for the admission fee to go inside. They both walked slowly side by side with Cecilia pointing now and then usually at an abstract picture of a moogle and other such creatures that caught her eye.

He paused to stare with hooded eyes at one particular painting that outlined the evening sun slowly setting beyond the sea’s horizon. This was all painted in various hues of red that traveled down ultimately into the waving crimson sea below.

Noting the locks of gold a few shades darker than his own from the corner of his eye, the doctor thought to turn away as if to show no interest but Cecilia was too perceptive for that, “Oh! Is this one your favorite, brother? To think of it, your jackets are all various shades of red too. Surprising you do not choose something more austere – like our father prefers to wear.”

“Are you serious...? Our father dresses more modestly than even a priest would. He would think even a single glance at a piece of art to be a waste of precious time. Considering that, it would be in our best interests if you told them nothing of our visit here today.” Arazul’s tone lowered to the end like he wished no one to hear. Their father had many friends around after all.

Cecilia lifted her hand to her lips to cover her soft chuckle and nodded all too happily at the thought, “Of course! You know he scolded me right before they left on their journey for buying a treat at the market. Hmm, I guess that would be why you kept your fondness for art a secret ..What do you like about it?” Her eyes that were a deep emerald green like their mother’s own glanced between him and the painting in pure curiosity.

Arazul glanced down from the painting, his hand slowly curling into a fist at his side in the barest hint of anxiety – he had never had to explain this before since no one had ever asked him, “For me, art is the only thing that possesses a sense of longevity on this star.”

His gloved hands beckoned out to the pieces on display, all of them a moment set forever in time, “All of these pieces will continue to exist long after all of us are gone, you know? Their creators leaving a piece of themselves – their vision as if immortalizing themselves in their creations…”

With a tilt to her head, Cecilia hummed thoughtfully before she suddenly entwined her arms about the many books-likely romance novels against her chest with a dreamy giggle, “That is where you are wrong, brother! I’ve read fables about them. Beautiful ashkin roaming the night, living for an eternity! Ahh, just imagine it- A lovely count or countess inviting you to their castle to greet with a bouquet of roses and dancing!” Her voice peaked with a little squeal and clap of her hands at the thought of the romantic gesture.

Arazul barked out a bit of laughter, shaking his head at his sister. It was clear she was reading some new material, “Quite imaginative, Cecilia. If they are anything like the stories I’ve read, they would rather dine on our necks than aim any of their ill-conceived romantic notions at us. If they exist at all...” He waved his hand dismissively when he began to turn to make his way to the next painting to view.

Prompt: Perpetuity

Rhyle sat in a divot between two gigantic tree roots, leaning his shoulders back against one side of the little makeshift cavern as he watched the rain fall in gentle waves. He wasn’t too worried about getting wet; he’d had to climb to get here, and there wasn’t much more than a tickle of a breeze to blow the water around. His ears swiveled to face forward as he listened to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the leaves and branches and bushes. He hadn’t been particularly tired when he’d decided to take a bit of time to relax and listen to the rain, but as his eyelids drifted closed of their own accord, he thought that perhaps he’d underestimated the rain’s ability to soothe him, the gentle noises enough to lull him into a sort of calm that he’d never had back home.

It was there, in that strange space between dreams and reality, that he felt it.