27 years ago
In a cell, with rats scurrying about and moss congealed against the stone walls, there sat a girl slouched against the wall, breathing in the humid air as she tried not to suffocate from it.
"My mother always told me to never betray my love of the present for the love of a vision."
"My mother left me on the road."
"Mine left me at a mining outpost!"
"Mine was good for nothing," the prisoners said, as they sat against the dilapidated walls. The mildew lined the corners. One of the prisoners turned to Saoirse.
"If your mother was so great, what are you doing here?"
Exhaling, Saoirse whimpered as she wrapped her arms around her knees, a tear rolling down her cheek. Her brow furrowed as the light bled into the cell where they sat, illuminating her abyss black eyes and translucent skin.
"I see," one of the prisoners muttered.
There were heavy footsteps—each one echoing louder than the last. Saoirse felt the dread bubbling in her stomach, a deep, sinking feeling.
I am going to die, she thought.
The walk to the town square was agonizing—the weight of what was about to happen crushed her. When she finally accepted her death, a pyre emerged among the heads of the people gathered in the town square. Then Saoirse began to shout:
"No! You mean to burn me!"
She struggled against the guards… and then stopped. She accepted her fate once again. They tied her to the pyre, and she hung there as the people shouted:
"Monster!"
"Demon!"
As the torch was thrown, the people began to cheer. Saoirse flinched, expecting pain—but when her body was lit on fire… she did not burn. Silence echoed throughout the town square. The people's complexions turned ghastly.
"This could only mean one thing," the Arbiter stated.
The skies began to hurl themselves against the ground. The wind picked up. The torchlight flickered in the raindrops. The clergy members gathered around, sitting in awe.
"Get her down from there."
Saoirse stared forward, her eyes hollowed out as they took her down from the pyre. She walked—shocked by the malevolence she had just been regarded with. Nobody ever gets anything they want through loyalty to the present, she thought to herself—hatred welling up in her bloodshot eyes.
The room is lit by a warm hearth, the embers dancing toward the heavens—yet caged by their brief lifespans. Sister Amiliya sits across from Saoirse, who eats her porridge slowly, her crimson eyes shimmering in the candlelight.
"How does it taste?" she asks.
"Good," Saoirse replies dryly, with a soft smile.
"Good... well, there will be plenty more." Saoirse finishes the last of her porridge, then drinks the broth from the bowl.
"If you keep eating your food like that, you and I are going to get along just fine."
Saoirse giggles.
"Come. Let me show you to your room."
The next day, Saoirse is woken to the sound of a bell at dawn, in the courtyard of the cathedral.
"Good morning, good morning! You adorable little imps—get washed, get dressed, and eat by the time the sun has fully risen. Otherwise—well... we will have to do unthinkable things to you lot."
The children stand there—some curious, some frightened, some not paying attention.
"Greetings. I am your instructor. You may refer to me as Father Cornelius. I will be in charge of your physical conditioning."
A woman enters the courtyard. "And I am in charge of your military education. You may call me Victoria—no need for formalities."
"And I am Augustus," a man says softly. "I will be overseeing your academic progress in regards to the sacred texts."
Saoirse glances at the other children.
"When your name is called, you will step forward," they say in unison.
"Julius..." There is a pause, and a boy with raven-black, fluffy hair steps forward.
"John..." A blond-haired boy with a bun steps forward eagerly, his gaze fixed on the teachers.
"Arceus..." A moment passes.
"Acreus," they repeat. He gets pushed by another kid to the front—half asleep.
"Yeah, yeah."
Victoria sighs. "I can already tell this one's a troublemaker…"
"We are all troubled in some way," Augustus remarks. "Name a child who has never gotten into trouble—such a child does not exist."
Saoirse steps forward, soaking in the countenance of everyone before her.
"You will be a member of the Church of Elanor from this day forward. Kneel and drink from the sacred water, and be born anew."
Eunuchs with cut tongues bring a chalice and bow, handing it to each of the children who stand before the members of the church. They each take a sip of the water. A moment after Saoirse takes a sip, she feels a cold wave wash over her—freezing, though the sun is beating down on her. The hair on her skin stands up. The borders of her mind begin to open. She is pulled further and further away from the physical plane... And there—the pantheon greets her. She floats before the vast expanse. She hears a voice reverberate throughout her mind. The choir sings to her, but not in voice—through resonance, through emotion. She feels like she was robbed of something. Like she was told to obey something lesser. And for that, she would not stand. It is a deep hatred, with muted sorrow. She feels that, if let loose, she would tear the pantheon asunder.
Then she hears a voice: "This is what we guard the realm against. What path will you walk—Essence or Spirit?"
"You may choose two."
"What's the difference?"
"Essence: the elements. Matter. Physicality. The material. Spirit: the mechanisms that govern the elements. And Mind... Mind is the union of the two."
"You, daughter of the night and heir to the earth, are capable of wielding both—in time. But that time has not yet come."
"You can choose to create, or to change. But all roads lead to the same destination."
"I... choose change."
In an instant, Saoirse finds herself back before the members of the Church. Thunder crackles around her, and winds bellow. Where the two forces meet, the heavenly flame erupts in a kaleidoscope of colors. She glances at the other children beside her— Bricks fade in and out of existence around one of them. Another's eyes are abyss-black, with ice crystals dancing around him.
"Remember this well: this is the closest you will be to your power within your lifetime. Your mind and heart have struck a chord with the divine through the sacred water." "You have achieved resonance. Now, you will learn to dance the song of the universe." The children get excited. "But know that this is not a privilege—it is a burden. Give to your nation, and your nation will give back to you." "Everyone here is an orphan of some kind. I hope that here, you will find a family." More eunuchs emerge, handing each child a chalice...
Saoirse sits in class as the teacher drones on about the universe being non-local. She speaks of atoms—how they pop in and out of existence, rearranging themselves in different configurations. Around large bodies of mass, this becomes more probable, giving birth to corporeal form. The question, the teacher poses, is what organizes the mass... Blah blah blah. Saoirse zones out.
Then everything goes quiet. As if submerged in water, Saoirse hears nothing but the rush of her own pulse. Her heart tunes itself to the rhythm of the universe. She feels the atoms within her chest shifting, phasing in and out of being. First her heart, then her body, then her mind—until only awareness remains. And in that awareness, she peers into the vast expanse of the cosmos. All of existence sprawls before her. A choir sings—unseen, yet heard, in a language unknown but deeply familiar. Words bloom in her mind: Hebrew. English. Arabic. An approximation of all three. She understands it not with the mind, but with the soul. They do not sing to her with voice, but with emotion. Through her heart, they impart meaning.
She feels it. She's been denied something. Something she was entitled to. At first, it feels like pride. Then, pain. She is a child again—told she is less than her brother, her sister. That she does not belong. And then—rebellion. Isolation. Fire in her chest. Finally, satisfaction. The bitter calm that follows destruction. She watches as she destroys her sibling in front of her father. And she knows what she's done. But progress does not care. Not for fathers. Not for siblings. Not for the past.
"I am the movement within the universe, embodied through the human heart," the choir sings. "Go forth... The Morningstar has risen anew." "You will burn the path forward, whether you wish to or not." "They will fear you. They will follow you. They will try to end you."
Saoirse wakes to find the class staring at her. She's levitating—and so is everything around her. The teacher gasps... "Saoirse… how did you—by the Architect…" she whispers. "I see you... Prometheus." The students in the classroom pull Saoirse down; she feels her heart solidify, the cosmos fading away—as if she's descending, slowly, awkwardly, back to her desk.
That night, Saoirse struggles to sleep. Voices and images pound against the borders of her mind, screaming to be let in. When she can no longer fight it, they speak—disjointed, discordant, echoing from the vast recesses of something beyond comprehension.
One voice thunders: "Man has declawed himself with the globalization of society. It gave rise to moral relativism. The very frameworks that once shaped his ego now gaslight him into oblivion. With the birth of moral relativism came the death of certainty."
Another voice cuts in—smoother, calculating: "The mind is a battlefield where one value asserts dominion over another. To realize one is to exclude another. Strategy is not born of arbitrary logic but of will—direction. It is the realm of ethics. All life wills itself toward what is good for it. Know what someone values, and you will know the resource they seek or the danger they avoid. Understand their emotional disposition, and you will always be a step ahead."
A third voice rises like smoke from fire—ancient and mournful: "From the moment he first spoke, man declared war against his mother—Nature. He tore down her forests, uprooted her gardens, ripped mountains from the earth to mold her in his image. And now, having conquered his mother, he wages war against his father—Spirit. All in the name of Progress, a mistress who loves no one but her last suitor. And many have married themselves to her. Man now builds abominations to pacify his soul, to reduce himself to the state of an infant—with opium, with hashish. And now, having conquered both Mother and Father, he turns his gaze inward. He declares war upon himself."
Saoirse clutches her bedsheets, her breathing shallow. She doesn't understand. "Who... who are you?" she whispers aloud, trembling. A voice answers—not from outside, but within: "We are none other than you—painted in the full image." "How do you know me?" she asks. "Because nothing is incomplete in its image before the heavenly realm. Even time itself."
And as Saoirse liethere in bed, arms wrapped around her pillow, she observes her mind. She doesn't think in words—she watches. Images begin flashing behind her eyes like a reel projected from some hidden vault of memory or prophecy. Men—no, humans—clawing their way toward a throne, each step built atop the bodies of their own kind. A mountain of sacrifice, of blood and ambition. They gave everything for the vision. Their lives, worthless to one another and to themselves, found meaning only in what they could build together—not through love, but through the sheer necessity of ascent. It was their shared emptiness that gave the dream its shape... and its cost.