(Taking Graceful Time - Void Usage - Nursery - Godseeker's Baffling - Sudden Call)
~~~ are used for changing the perception of vision (POV)
••• denotes flashback
*** denotes time skip
** denotes background sounds
'...' denotes internal thought
() denotes layered perception
===
Thou takest thy time.
Yea-deliberately.
The path before thee is neither long nor uncertain, and yet thy passage is drawn out beyond all necessity. Each moment stretched, each instant permitted to linger where swiftness might have sufficed.
Wherefore?
Doth the ruin about thee ensnare thy sight? Doth the desolation of these once-hallowed halls awaken some buried curiosity within thee?
Behold.
Walls once radiant now lie veiled in creeping black. Pillars, that erstwhile upheld doctrine and decree, stand hollowed-gnawed not by time, but by purpose fulfilled and discarded. Platforms, where once devotion gathered in ordered ranks, now bear only the silent stain of Void.
Even the waters, that once mirrored light, now drink only shadow. The clouds above-once clear and vast-spread no longer comfort nor purity. Their pallid forms drift in listless silence, robbed of breath and brilliance alike.
All that was bright is dimmed. All that was ordered is loosened. All that was sacred is repurposed.
Where, then, did it falter?
Or did it ever falter at all?
For what if this-this unmaking, this consumption, this quiet undoing-be not error, but fulfilment?
What if the end was ever thus ordained?
Think.
Think, as thou movest through the air, leaving in thy wake fractures of dark-thin rents in the firmament that close as swiftly as they are made. Think, as thou observest the husk of beauty, stripped of pretence.
Was it not always thus beneath the surface?
Rot clad in gold. Decay crowned in light.
Is it not fitting that such veils be torn away?
...
Nay.
Thou dost not linger for memory. Thou dost not tarry for mourning.
What here remaineth to mourn?
Nothing that concerneth thee. Thou seekest not the past.
Thou seekest her.
Thine awareness casteth itself outward-behind pillar and passage, beneath arch and along corridor. Upward, where balconies cling to failing stone. Downward, where chambers sink into shadow.
Every direction. Every angle.
And yet...
Why this search? Why this wandering gaze, when the answer lieth already within thy grasp?
For she beareth thee.
The Void thou hast placed within her courseth through her being still. It clingeth, it marketh, it endureth.
By it, thou couldst find her without effort.
Unless...
Hath she diminished it? Hath she cast it out, in part or in whole?
...
No.
Cast aside such idle conjecture. The truth is more simple.
And more flawed—
Thou hast not yet mastered thy dominion.
Strange, is it not? That thou—Lord of the Void, Sovereign of Shades, Keeper of Depths Unfathomed—shouldst yet find imperfection within thy command.
Yet titles are wind.
Names are garments worn for the sake of others. Power requireth practice. Even the deepest abyss demandeth familiarity of step.
The Void is no child to be nurtured. It is no companion to be cherished. It is instrument. It is method. It is path.
A force that neither asketh nor answereth. And yet—even such a force demandeth precision in its wielding.
Consider the Nail.
Unused, it rusteth.
Yet the Void is no such brittle thing. It rusteth not, whether clasped or cast aside. Be it Wild or Controlled, it endureth—stubborn, unbreaking, a Nail that refuseth the law of decay.
Consider the flower.
Left to its own poison, it withereth by that which it beareth.
So too with the Void—not in its essence, but in its handling. For Wild Void needeth no hand; it wandereth as it listeth, devouring, unbidden and unruled. But Controlled Void—thou knowest this well—demandeth more than mere possession. It requireth a bearer that erreth not in step nor faltereth in will.
Fail therein, and it returneth. Not broken—nay—but unbound. It casteth off thy claim and sinketh again into its first nature, as it hath ever been.
For the Void changeth not.
It is endless-gluttony. A remnant. A fossil of a world long since writ off the face of all things, swallowed by time and left in silence.
And thou—
Thou art not master by right of holding.
One needeth not a perfect Nail to be named a Nailmaster; yet without the discipline of hand, the knowledge of strike, the patience of form—thou art but a fool grasping iron.
So too here.
To wield the Void, thou must be as it is. Not above it. Not apart from it.
With it.
Its nature must be thine own nature. Its pattern, thine instinct. Its behavior, thine breath.
This mastery is no small thing. It is not granted. It is earned in the long cruelty of time, in failure, in repetition, in the slow carving of self into something that may contain it.
Call it experience, if thou must.
Without it, thou lackest. Thou falterest. Thou remainest incomplete. And the Void—indifferent, as ever—shall take notice of none of it.
...
Enough (with the poetry).
For thou hast found her.
And, oh—
*The little one also.*
~~~
Mine eyes do uncloud themselves.
The ache within my body lesseneth-if but slightly. My thoughts, which erst did whirl as storm-winds, now settle into something near stillness.
I sit-my back pressed against the wall of a chamber long familiar—a place of tending, recovery and remembrance.
Once, we came hither wounded. Lost. Broken in body and spirit alike. And here, we made ourselves whole again.
That was before...
Before They cound Us.
Before They remade Us.
The chamber remaineth unchanged. Its walls gleam yet with that ancient gold-softened by age, yet unbroken. Patterns like unto leaves are carved upon them, each vein and curve wrought with care beyond mortal patience.
Relics of a gentler age. A lie, perhaps. Or a truth no longer needed.
The bed-
'Ah.'
The bed remaineth as it ever was. Soft as the fur of some gentle beast at rest, its surface yieldeth beneath my weight with a kindness I no longer deserve.
Above, the chandelier casteth fractured light-splintered reflections dancing upon wall and floor alike. It showeth what is. And what standeth behind. And yet...
It showeth nothing true.
At the chamber's heart standeth the aspersorium, raised upon its modest pillar. Once it held the sacred droplets of Gods long forsaken. Now-
It standeth empty.
As do We.
...
We changed this place. We remade it. Hall by hall. Chamber by chamber. Void woven into every seam, every surface, every breath of air.
All but this one—this chamber we spared.
Why? Perhaps... to remember. Or perhaps—
To measure how far we had fallen.
...
Ages passed.
For Them. For Us. For Me. Time-Endless, abundant, merciless. It lay within my grasp. And still...
I let it slip.
To achieve perfection demandeth totality. All must be given. Nothing withheld.
Time most of all.
Each step upon the ladder must be certain. Each ascent deliberate. For the final step-
Ah.
The final step defineth all that came before. And I...
I faltered.
My hands clutch the sheets. The golden fabric yieldeth, creasing beneath my grip as though it too would recoil from my touch.
This cloth...
Passed down through generations. Woven with care. Preserved with reverence. And now-
Grasped by failure.
What would they think of Me? Those who came before? Those who bore this burden with greater strength than I?
Would they deem me unworthy? Unfit? A leader in name alone?
...
'I pray... let it not be so.'
My breath cometh harsh and slow. Each inhale a labour. Each exhale a confession.
I sought perfection.
A flawless offering—a ritual so pure it would command Their regard without question. I knew...
Yea, I knew that...
That They were displeased.
With Us. With Me. Yet I believed... if only the final act were executed without fault...
All would be redeemed.
But the final act... The final step...
I stumbled. I faltered. I fell.
...
My grip tighteneth. The fabric groaneth beneath the strain. For when I was to be acknowledged, truly acknowledged... I could not stand alone.
They held Me. They aided Me.
They... intervened.
And thus...
It was no longer mine.
...
'Did I not earn that moment?'
The thought riseth unbidden-hot and sharp.
'Did I not suffer for it?'
'Did I not give all that I am?'
My teeth clench. My breath quickeneth.
'DID I NOT-?!'
"...Hazel?"
The word breaketh the storm-soft and uncertain... And all at once-
Silence returneth.