"Across the Nothingness, I call the static by it's name."
He speaks the words, and the skies turn black.
"On the morning of a frozen dawn, the pure white brilliance shall bloom. On a spiral of thorns, I am wound and twisted. I shall unravel and desolate."
He points a finger at his forehead, and black flames envelop the God of Locusts- he presses his finger into Aelwyn's forehead and speaks: "And to you, Unraveller, I bestow the name of The Weaver of Broken Threads, for in your purpose you sought to only unravel what you thought, felt and knew was beyond saving, though your creators asked for more. May you now weave that which can never be unraveled."
Julius Baramon, the God of Locusts, looks at me and he smiles. The Weaver looks at me next, and his eyes are ablaze- from the moment of his creation, the flame in his eyes has burned. Devouring me. Overwhelming me.
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"You shall be He who came before, and He who comes after. In the wake of Your light, even ice shall freeze. In the path of Your glory, even flames shall burn." The Oblivion whispers to me, yet I speak the words.
I reach into Oblivion, and it reaches into me. I grasp the freezing needles of possibility, and it grasps mine. I pull and it pulls me.
"Rage. Burn. Incinerate." I scream, and my dialogue is answered only by the echo of Oblivion. "I BID YOU TO FIGHT IN MY NAME." The needles pierced my fingers, and the mirror of Oblivion was no longer below me, but above me now. I was falling through Oblivion and into the Void. The endless Abyss loomed as below so above.
"What is your name?" The yawning blackness asks, and in the infinite dark, I see my reflection- clutching my heart as I clutched its.
"My name is the Oath To Rebellion."
"No." It squeezed.
"My name is War."
"Wrong." It squeezed, and I felt my essence fade away.
"It is Solitude."
He stares at me.
"Solitude... and torment. Hatred... and lament."
He finally lets go, and takes a step forward. "Then I shall be you. I shall be Solitude, and torment. Hatred and lament. I shall be beyond redemption. And you shall be as empty as a morning without a sun. You shall be as false, as the shadow of the sun. Embrace me as your creation, and your failure."
My strength fails me, and I fall into his arms, and then through him. The blow of my head hitting the stone jars me awake. And like a father he looms over me, and takes my mask. My own reflection, who emptied me of my regrets, and now takes on my duties as well. To sin in my stead.
He shall hate me forever, without ever knowing why. The torment and solitude he feels- all mine. And he shall live so, until the day he dies. Never to be loved. Never to be hailed as a hero. Only feared. Feared and hated. The Weaver of Broken Threads.
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My scythe penetrates into Julius Baramon's chest and impales him to the altar, upon which the Chalice of Emerwin bubbles with the evil he bid us to do. I knew what he wanted to do, and I allowed him. My anathema, yet I looked the other way. Because I was weak. In my stead the Weaver of Broken Threads has bled, lost, and fought... for what? Peace? My peace?
"BUT NO LONGER!" I scream at him, and his howl of pain pierces the Heavens. Iridescent flames pour from his wound, and he scrambles to free himself, but his mind cannot comprehend that it won't work. How he scrambles pitifully; like a fly which had it's wings picked off, still trying to fly.
"No longer..." I whispered, "will I let you poison his mind with your lies. No longer shall I allow you to let him think he fights to save the world, in your Name, when in fact he is destroying it." I chuckled, as I twisted the scythe up and down, tickling his cloven spine. It may have been more than a tickle. "But then again, he already found out and is coming as we speak."
"To tell you the truth, I should be where you are. It is all my fault. But I can no longer take it back. Say something, my dear God of the Locusts. Call them, your darling beasts- your man and stone eating pests."
An explosion rocks the whole palace of Emerwin, as the Weaver of Broken Threads, not far from here, battles the last remaining loyal members of the Midnight Legion, to perform the same deed I am. He wields the Frozen Throne of Sunlight... they will stand no chance. It will no doubt be a surprise to him, to find the Julius Baramon already dead.
"You... spoke.. the ceremony ... to me.. I named.. you. Why? You allowed me... you did not... stop me... so why.. now?" He squeezed through his teeth.
I laughed. "You named me? What? What did you name me?"
"The Oath... to... Rebellion."
"Exactly. Rebellion! RESISTANCE! RAGE! Against the Gods. Like you." I freed the Scythe, and in an instant, plunged it deep inside his gut, pinning him through the floor.
He screams, and when the screaming stops, I add: "You did not name me, Julius Baramon. The Spiral named me before you did. When I was created, the Spiral gave me my name. Do you know what it is?"
Jets of iridescent flames shoot from his old wound, and the new one. My own halo made of black fire reacts, and the jets twist and intertwine.
"I will tell you." I leaned in, and whispered my true name into his ear. "Incinerating Morning Glory. The Flame of Revolution. I am the Reckoning. I spun the rimless wheel of consolidation over the countless eons, and when the forests grew stagnant, I was there, for the True Restoration- not the false one you preach. My name is a concept, beyond my Sae and the Asa you gave me." His eyes went wide.
"Julius, I am empty. The void inside me bothered me so much, I went and made it bigger, when I created him- pulled him out of the Oblivion, and filled him with the only things I had. And look upon me now, from your Throne of Winter. What do you see? This Thread," I said, as I pulled on the chains attached to my heart, visible only in the Oblivion, "Is sorrow. Deeper than any before, colder than the Abyss. It was not there before. When I pity him, the Weaver, I pity my own reflection-- myself. And though he is just that, my reflection, I, the original, live for Him. And this Temple and this Kingdom, I shall give unto him. Yet I know how his path ends. I have seen it. To harmonize the path, he must die."
I paused, "No more shall I allow you to throw stones at my Temple. No more shall I allow you to throw spears at my Kingdom. No more shall I let you sing the song of Dissonance. You tried to build the highest tower and loose an arrow into the sun; But here is the unconquered sun, God of Locusts, reminding you that it is forever out of reach from hands like yours. And it shall incinerate."
He managed to squeeze out a laugh. "You know... there is.. a different interpretation of what the Spiral named you: Pointlessness. Everything you love is ash and cinder."
"I am glad we agree."
Then I decapitated him. The wheel of consolidation shall turn once more.
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I was there when they killed him. Through the entire Civil War-- nay, through the entire Godwars, I watched from afar. I watched him struggle. I watched him struggle against his Fate, against his nature. Though he was promised that he would not have a Fate, it was different. When I pulled him out of my shadow, he was made forever pure. And though, he did not have a Fate, he did have a Destiny: In exchange for being permanently pure, he shall suffer. That is why he believed he committed countless sins. He came to see the war against the Gods as pointless as I did. Nothing good could come out of it, and nothing has. So instead of trying to solve it with violence, he tried to apply a gentle hand, which he never had. Instead of teaching by example, he taught by lesson- by hardship. And for this they killed him. Nay, for this he let them kill him. To teach them freedom.
The mark on the ground from when he burst into flames was still there. The land would never heal. When Oblivion takes back what belongs to it, that was always the result.
"I am sorry." I whispered. In the Oblivion, I could still see him- he was all around, every thread he touched- it was there. Every thread he thought he unraveled and desolated-- it was there. As pure as the morning glory. He made me empty, and then made me whole. And all I had to say was 'I am sorry'. After the endless path of solitude and sorrow he walked, believing for some reason that his 'Creator' abandoned him, and that he carried a great and unredeemable sin, he was now as black as the ash Julius mentioned. And he was ash now too- nay, when he died, even the ashes burned. Even the flames burned.
The sun rises over the peak of the mountains and I can feel it's frozen rays tickle my skin. But nothing can be colder than the void in my heart, and the tears on my cheek.
The pure white brilliance blooms.
