Ronin's Wake - Wake up it's a wake don't fall back into it's wake

Ronin's Wake

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Ayrt Main Hyvn Main Vayha Main Book List Main People Of Vayha The Slavaers (Calender/Weights & Measures)

This Series (Status--ongoing editing, books incomplete)

Foreword—Ronin’s Wake: Escaping

Faster, almost two hundred times faster….

I am not asleep. I’m just traveling through myst. These are memories, not dreams. I can’t dream until I’m mortal.

The servants of Jehovah’s realm were not designed to fight, they were easily torn apart. Jehovah was stunned. He backed away to the farthest corner of his realm and called for aid. Me and my brothers were all in Eve’s realm, my mother Lilith neglected the job of tending to us. Eve heard Jehovah’s cry for aid and came with all the servants she could spare. She left us alone with me in charge as the eldest. It’s real I remember….

Eve, the green one, whispers to me. “Take care of your brothers. You are the eldest. I love you even as not my son. Protect my home my love.” She kisses me on my forehead and my feathered wings flutter. She pulls herself up and away, going with all the servants to fight my uncle Satan, the black one.

I am worried, the blue one, my true mother Lilith, I do not believe will help my father Jehovah, the white one. By what Eve described of Jehovah’s cry he is overwhelmed and I do not see how Eve’s gentle servants will be much aid. Me and my brothers are not much better. Our forms were not designed for the destroying that Satan must be doing. I have no claws, only gentle blunt fingers. My wings have feathers soft, not sharp or hard. My energy has only explored gentle and beautiful things. I can make music with my voice that must already rival the muse Gods of hyvn proper, and it is music that feels good and gives a little powyre to all who listen. I can’t imagine a sound that would do the opposite.

…No I’m not that one—so many selves backwards. How can I remember this? Is it because in this realm of the forgotten the ones we were come back to haunt us? I was not prepared for this price….

“Should I go to Lilith? Perhaps if I…”

Jehovah looks at me with blinding eyes. “No. You will have no contact with her. She has not attacked me directly, but I don’t imagine she is very far from it.” He looks away. “How do you feel about that?”

“I am loyal to you father, forever.” I bow and go to my knees, a sign of respect and submission. “I come to be a service in your time of need father.”

“My brother Satan knows his nature well. He grows in strength at the expense of us and our servants.” He pauses and continues. “Together we hold him at bay, but only our servants hold back his horde, and they are being slaughtered. If not for the arrival of Eve and her servants my land would already be overrun.” He looks at me again, his eyes less bright then before. “You must get help, talk to Pele and Death, bring your brothers. We can not lose. If we run, he will only grow more powerful, and we will never have a chance to recover.”

…Yes. That is how it happened. I’d forgotten. I was so pure, so righteous. Is someone tempting me with these memories? Trying to instill regret for what I became? Are these fragments random or chosen?

I remember dully that I failed in my first attempt at seeking help. Yes father turned me away because of that, and so birthed a bitterness deep deep inside me. And then what happened? The black one, he was before me, wanting to swallow me. Me? I was Lucifer….

Satan’s powyre is flaring. Tendrils coiling. I speak quickly, “I come to speak only with my mother.”

Satan floats towards me, but Lilith interrupts his advance with, “Wait brother. I would listen to my son alone. Please continue with your battle before the white and green ones recover. Don’t worry, Lucifer is no threat, and I will call you when I am ready again.”

Satan’s growl turns into a dark grin. He surrounds me with his powyre and shrinks my bubble of self. It is not an attack. He is not ripping me apart, he is not taking my powyre, but squeezing it—my unused potential—until it is flowing entirely through my physical body. There is no room. He surrounds me completely, stopping just short of my skin.

I don’t move, at all. His grin floats close nearly kissing me and suddenly my arms are nearly yanked out of their sockets and my wings nearly torn off. His will stretching me out, my wings and arms making an X across the stick of my head torso and legs. I resist my instincts. I resist rage that has started to boil in me. Rage I will direct at no one, because I know where it comes from. I will not think of it, because I am loyal.

Satan still floats next to me, a hand reaches out of the black and pulls off one of my feathers—white as my father’s powyre. I cringe at the sting, though I still hadn't show the pain of the stretching. The feather darkens, turning black as Satan’s powyre. Disembodied lips whisper in my ear, in such a way that I guess Lilith can not hear. “I will have you first. You should have been my son. I am going to take you back and you will be born again—not white but black. I can sense the longing in your heart for the freedom of my nature. Jehovah is going to lose. Your brothers I will absorb them all. Don’t ever delude yourself into thinking me the tyrant. I am the one who seeks to free your souls. The nature of white is a mistake in the hands of the first born of the Father. Your mother is only now realizing this. Pele and Death know it enough to stay out of this affair, and Eve… Eve is too naïve. Know I am not the tyrant Lucifer. Know that my rage is one of purpose, that I seek the balance in the way of my nature. That the freedom of it allows me wisdom, and the ability to see your father’s plots. He would have eyrh to himself alone. The very thing I’m sure you would accuse me of. I will spare your rebirth now for later, only because of your mother, but when I see you again I will not hesitate to absorb your powyre, your lifeforce, your soul. You will serve my nature and the greater good of our balance.”

…And instead I absorbed him. Could that have then been his memory more then mine? Is it something inside me that is directing these chronological fragments? If so am I insane for preferring that to further outside manipulation? When was I cursed with the label of “tool”, was it with my birth? I was the first—it probably was my parent’s intent. Yet it was not until I was killed for the first time….

Something has been thrown through me. Blood is on my lips. I am aware that powyre is leaving me. My very lifeforce leaking out—as music? I am feeling what I imagine is pain. A stick has pierced my chest. I still fly. It has done little to stop me, but I am bleeding both physically and of powyre. I look up and see a small servant of Satan on the neck of a predator watching me, swaying as it listens to my blood. It has an arm and hand. It must have thrown this stick—sharp and wooden. But how easily it pierced me. Can such simple things really stop the son of a God?

I feel more pain. My blood is singing white and blue. More sticks have pierced me—my back and sides. I look around and see them. Small servants dancing, some with sharp sticks, others empty handed. Black slick looking things, half my height. Hunched over. Sharp pointed teeth, sexless, bald, with small pointed ears, short clawed fingers and no toes.

Servants with similar looks but much larger, half again my height, stand behind them holding rocks the size of my head. I feel light headed and wonder what they could do with rocks. My blood is beautiful.

I catch movement in the corner of my eye and turn. A large heavy thing smacks one of the sticks in my stomach a moment before it impacts me. The pain—they drink my music. The rocks are being thrown. I can’t think to move. I am stuck and being struck and crushed. My body is being smashed. I am feeling distant, like when I visit eyrh. I know they are all rushing in now—these two types of Satan servants. I am aware of my powyre bleeding out faster and faster. I am aware also of my brothers. They too I sense are growing dimmer. My blood looses it's tune, just a flood now.

I am aware of my physical body being torn apart, and losing control of my rings of light which—mostly—drain back into my increasingly disembodied lifeforce, my little ocean of powyre. The creatures are eating my flesh, and I can sense they are growing strong from it. The music of mere wounds just stirred their appetite.

My body is gone now—torn apart divided and consumed. I have lost much, but only relatively. Most of the powyre I embodied remains my own, my vast core is still untapped.... Is that one wearing some of my skin?

…Yes that was a lesson harshly learned. So lucky no one there could take advantage of my nakedness—my lifeforce bare. That first death only took from me half what a having a full child would have, and manifesting a new worthy body took about the same. But then I had nothing but my core of innate powyre and no time to recover my expendable layer of innate powyre. I think my archangel music had gone—finally torn from me after my innocence and body.

I fought with my new body and learned. I think searching for something to replace my singing. I killed creatures and liked it, but still the thought of killing people—my relatives—sickened me. A step at a time I left delicate beauty behind….

I don’t hold back. Hundreds, then thousands fall to my power. I kill and feel a little bit of each of their life coming into me. I am aware of a blackness in me now. Such a small part of me but it is there. A color I didn’t have at birth. A color I am stealing from Satan. A color that brings me pleasure.

…But I couldn’t do enough. I couldn’t kill fast enough. My father and Eve then did a desperate thing and birthed full twins—Godlings like me, which let loose a great wave of destructive powyre that overwhelmed Satan’s army and nearly ended me.

Ah, but after, that was when I had time to myself. A taste of freedom as I drifted in the depths of limbo. Time and peace enough for long deep thoughts. I remember I began to understand the weaknesses of Gods. I thought I did, maybe I did. But then I was crazy enough to consider seeking out my eternal tormentors, the Sibyl Gods, to further my wisdom.

Hmm, were those five followers of the Father my tormentors then? Rooted to the ground they by nature have to work through others. I was the first full child of Gods, the first Godling. Their equals couldn’t have been easy tools so I must have been the natural first experiment for them. Yet their subtlety was so artful I can’t with perfect memory know when their puppeteering of me began.

And I think never have I known exactly how they did it, nor can I truthfully be certain they have influenced me outside of my imagination that they have. It is faith that I haven’t had my own life to live—the reason for this leap, this journey. Guilt should be proportional to the degree of choice one has. And I have to believe I had lost my perspective when I did the worst of things.... The pleasure of violence stays with me.

I want to leave it behind. How can I carry a God’s guilt as a mortal? I wish to be free of these memories. I thought I was free of these memories….

I have slowed in my approach and let the entity come into my applied zen awareness. It's aura is familiar—a Godling blue white blaze cloaking the deeper layers, of which the next I can now perceive as a deep dark blue with a swirl of white sparkles. Ah now I have placed it—her. Eyvll, first daughter of Lilith and Satan.

I send her greetings again, but she ignores me and comes closer. To my aura sense she blazes so bright I can't see past her soul color layer—her dark blue with white swirl powyre signature. Her blaze speeds into range of my physical eyes. She has black wings that are only skin, no feathers. The rest of her body is a dark blue. She has claws and fangs. Her eyes glow with powyre so fresh its white origin bleaches its manifestation. She must have just been munching on a horde of Jehovah’s servants.

I let some undigested black powyre come out of my eyes as a foil. It manifests as a black light that darkens my whole face. I say “I have absorbed your father’s powyre as you have absorbed my father’s. Our fathers are at war, so we are at war. You are my enemy and I will destroy you.” I let out two long spear tentacles and have my six thick ones hold me steady. I begin to gather as much available construct as I can. Fire and lighting dance over my body as I manipulate hyvn’s construct. I spare nothing to hide my destructive intent.

She circles me—pulling in the construct of hyvn as well, but hides any give away manifestations. I rotate, keeping her in front of me. She circles me in all directions faster and faster, marking an encompassing sphere of territory that begins to cut my flow of construct off. But I am not worried. I know how young she is. She will loose, will feed my soul. Yet, I feel reluctance. Violence seems wrong now. I don't want to kill her. It's my sex flaring, leading my desire. My soul cries to her. I want to have children with her. A trap?

I send my tentacles to spear her. I miss. She's become too fast. I send fire and lighting to hurt and slow her but she knocks my attacks aside with graceful powyre parries. I have to admit she has much more natural ability at combat then I did, or perhaps she has simply been trained—something I had to do for myself.

I really shouldn’t be spending time at play. There is too much I don’t know about the current state of the war. A moment to focus, another to move straight unerringly to her—propelling myself with a surprise burst of speed she could never hope to match with any set of wings. I let a dozen more tentacles out and wrap them around her. I send my two spear ones straight through her chest—one for each breast.

She has a stunned look—white light of her eyes fading, sucked back in. I release all the construct I had gathered into her as fire—burning her body to ash. I open myself to her powyre lost from death as her disembodied self tries escape. It is the color of sex. I drink in as much as I can. My tentacles follow the cloud that is her in all directions, tapping her fleeing lifeforce.

It is beyond delicious—incomparable to killing simple servants. She’s replenished my lost powyre. And more, I feel growth. My maximum, my cup to hold my lifeforce has grown—something I have never.... This means I can be more then the most powerful of children. I have the capacity to reach for Godhood. What a glorious realization.

…Is this true? Was I so corrupted, so hungry for powyre even before Mar’s gift?

Oh... yes it was, and that hunger drew wrath upon me. I now remember my mother then hunted me with a relentless intensity equal to Satan.

I ran to the Underworld, homeland of Death and Pele—a harrowing place and time. I’d think I only survived with the Fates’ blessing, but I suspect they weren’t born yet. Mmm, they’d probably came to be after I absorbed Satan. No definitely.

Yes the Demigod Athena, daughter of Mars and Eyvll, reported to me about this. The Fates are the Godling daughters of Lilith and Death, but are loyal to their father more or only. He assigned them to the task which named them ‘Fates’. Could it be them instead that are my tormentors? But they were too young. How could three new children of Gods out do five actual Gods—the Sibyls?

Well I can’t know now, and when I arrive in eyrh I’ll make sure these memories are my only chain to my past. Well except of course for….

“Step on to my chariot. We will ride to my Forge where I have your gift cooling in the river.”

I step on Mar’s chariot and we ride. I am surprised at the speed. Fast as I would have gone with my old feathered wings. Faster then such weak creatures should have been capable of, particularly while pulling a chariot with such grand passengers. And without wings or tentacles. I ask. “How do your creatures fly?”

He laughs and says. “The same way as I do. We don’t. We create a road underneath our feet—a road of construct. Surely cousin at your age you have discovered something similar. I see no wings on you, like your brothers have.”

I say. “I've discovered something, but it's quite different. My means of travel is much faster then wings or... this. Which I suppose is why I never traveled your way. But it is useful knowledge to know. It makes sense as I think of it—forming construct into something physical enough for me to step on, or simply stand on.” Doesn’t really seem all that useful, though... if I am standing still it may be a good alternative to my thick tentacles gripping construct. It may take less concentration. Also, perhaps such an ability practiced could turn into an unconventional attack—forming construct into semi-physical states at a distance, then it could be used to bind, to stop, to crush, and maybe even to cut.

We ride the construct down to a building larger then any I have seen, but simple in design—just a large rectangular box standing tall. I have heard that I come from a privileged realm, but I had not realized how stark, how simple the dwellings of others are. Truly the only other buildings I have seen were in Eve’s and Jehovah’s realm, and I just assumed all would create dually—use and beauty. I know only privacy from servants, decoration, and protection as reasons for building. But—this massive block must have additional purpose. It has nothing worthy of even being named a decoration and I am aware of no servants to be concerned about. I say. “What is this building? What is it used for?”

Mars points to the river. “Part of the river flows into my building, the Forge. I use the river and my powyre, the powyre of my parents, the crude powyre of the construct itself to forge things such as this chariot, your gift, and the tools I carry.” He shows me his tools. Oddly shaped golden things, that my awareness sees are made of powyre like the ring about my head.

I concentrate on the aura of his tools and can't find the conduit maintaining them. “Your chariot and tools, are you connected to them.”

He says. “No. I do not maintain them. They exist of their own powyre.”

This is interesting. These things he has forged are a new sort of thing for me to see. Not like the forests, or other facets of the domains of Jehovah or Eve. These forged things have a core of powyre static, even when cut from their creator. I see no white in their outer aura, so not lifeforce just the dark blue of powyre. They're not entities nor simply physical things. Roads have no powyre, though they were formed from it. But these forged things have powyre like something living yet were formed and are inanimate. These are a new sort of thing and I wonder how the currents of life affect them—if at all.

We ride through an open doorway of the building. A great hollow inside, it's as ascetically unimpressive as the outside. We step off, I follow Mars to the center of the single large room. A small stream of black liquid crosses the floor then loops back out—Styx. Something sticks out of the stream—a flat bed of something, split down the middle through which a line of blackness flows. Immersed there is something else—hidden from my physical eyes but my applied awareness sees blazing blue black aura. Something that has powyre equal to the creatures that draw Mars' chariot. Not one of them, but both of them together—about one fiftieth of my own powyre. The shape and color of the blaze is like the tools that Mars wears, but long and pointed.

Mars motions for me to stay wear I stand and strides towards the stream. But he slows with each step until he seems to ponder before each and then hang his foot in the air hesitantly. I ask. “What are you doing?” His head seems to take forever to turn, and his face just very slowly smiles then looks back at the stream before him. He jumps and seems to hover a moment before speeding across to the flat bed in the stream.

He lands easily and turns and waves at a normal speed. “The Styx is a death flow, it's speed is different. As you approach it slows you, then at the edge it speeds you while above the middle you move normally.” He pulls out an X shaped tool and sticks it into the line of blackness where the powyre I sense hides. “I saw my mother throw a servant in this river once. I could sense it speeding away for a moment. Then, it was just—gone.” He wiggles his tool. “My father now....” He pulls the mystery out of the blackness. “...He has had better success.” It has a handle. It is meant to be gripped in the hand and swung. It is a weapon. It is meant to cut and kill.

Memories come back to me of the battle I fought with Satan’s servants. Of the sticks and rocks thrown at me. Of my own spear tentacles. Of the blades I made with my powyre that couldn’t pierce the hide of that one armored servant. I look at the blade of this weapon and know it could pierce hide. It seems it could pierce anything.

Mars says. “You sense it's call don't you? You should he, err—it was attuned to your soul, though I see your colors have changed a little.” He grins. “You've been snacking.” He holds the blade out to the side with his tool and leaps back across the river, reversing the speed changes getting there.

After he walks out to normal speed he holds the blade towards me and says. “This is Azi Dahaka. The dragon sword, so named for it's origin from a lesser kin.” He smirks. “Death's not the only one who's been experimenting.” He forces a wide smile. “It is my gift to you. I have finished it, but no one has touched it. When you do, it will awaken and bind itself to you. It will help focus your powyre. It will make you a warrior that nothing of Satan and Lilith can match. It is the first weapon I have made. I have started on others, but this one is special to me. Use it well and let it be known who enabled you. As you kill announce that it was I who forged it. This is my only price Lucifer. A good deal for the both of us.”

…It’s laughable to think I believed him. ‘My only price’, except you didn’t mention your father’s price, and he is who really made your gift special. Did I ever know it clearly? Death hasn’t been clear to me—just left me guessing. But I’d bet he didn’t want me to replace Satan as the black one and step out of reach. As a God of the Six with a blade that could end my new fellows—even Death I suspect, I could not have become what he intended... could I?

If not, then who exactly intended for me to replace Satan? I must assume intention, not whim. But if that was intended what of the side affect, the second ending? And wait—I’m remembering my father’s betrayal now….

Jehovah raises his hand and I am bound in his powyre. I feel my sword’s hilt in my hand but I resist my instincts to try and cut myself free. I don’t see how it would work on my Father’s disembodied tendrils of powyre anyway. He speaks. “Lucifer my son. You are confused and dangerous. Lilith has sent me a offer of peace in exchange for a gift. Can you guess what that gift is?”

I speak. “I can guess. It would be me.” I squint my eyes against his light. “Father you are blind.”

Jehovah nods. “Yes you are the gift. And no I am not blind now, but I was.” His holy white soul flares, blinding my aura sense for a moment then dims to a more normal blaze that his physical body matches. “I should have foreseen your mother’s treachery.” Fingers, blazing white as the rest of him, stir the construct in front of me. “She was always jealous of Eve. She could not understand the relationship I must maintain with any of the other Six.” His fingers curl into a fist and the construct as far as I can sense shudders. “There must be a distance. Lilith was mistaken to be jealous for lack of attention—I gave Eve equal amounts of children. Now because of your mother the Six is no more—fractured.”

Still holding me in his powyre's grip he drifts back. “Our natures are conflicting and our connection to Eyrh is almost severed. Now is a time for a new era.” He dims all but his eyes, which he makes so bright that my own scream pain. I stubbornly keep them open despite the message. I won't look away, but oh the pain. I go blind accept for my aura sense as my eyes are burned away. The black in me is no more able to keep the purifying white at bay then my mother's blue. “One where there is a leader among the Gods.” I can't see but can sense his aura pressing into me and physically feel his light burning past my ruined eyes. “To maintain stability.” No! I mustn't let him pierce me. “One with the powyre to keep the order, the will to push forward, and the wisdom to keep the balance.” The light! No where to hide! “This leader is me.” Only my gift remains unlit. “Eve is the first to swear herself to me, and let herself be bound.” Dare I give “patricide” meaning. “The rest of the Six will follow, and then perhaps the rest of Hyvn.” No! I dare not attempt it, even for the sake of all. “While the Father watches I will rule under him.”

…So it was chance. Perhaps, no—likely it was my father that Death expected me to replace....

I follow him with my ruined eyes, his aura a star ten times mine. I speak. “I thought Lilith was going to meet us at the battlefield.” Jehovah is silent. Then he begins to move again, pushing me ahead of him. I am aware that the rest of the caravan follows. He is ignoring me now, though still with much nonwhite in me I know his purifying is unfinished. I speak again. “Father you must see…” I feel his powyre tearing through my throat up into my mouth and ripping off my jaw. My lifeforce bleeding out, but no music—why can't he let me talk anymore? Ignoring my powyre—he is even denying his share from wounding me. No, it isn't drifting, but curving back to—yes... and oddly I can feel a thicker and thicker stream of it going into my sword.

Almost all my powyre that is bleeding is going into my sword now. I don’t think Jehovah or anyone else has noticed. My leakage is relatively insignificant to all but my sword. It must be aglow with my colors. Oh and it is so hungry for more. Controlling itself? It does—it turns of its own will in my hand so the sharp of its blade is against the bindings of Jehovah’s powyre. They snap and I am free. New eyes form with a reflective guard—my body is blind no more. What next is my will?

Jehovah instinctively has pulled his tendrils away from me with the sting that my sword gave him. My news eyes are ready to observe along with my applied awareness his powyre that he sends back at me. I bring my sword up in both my hands, sharp side towards him and me. His tendrils tries to avoid the sword and seek me out, but with my arms seemingly acting only as an extension of it, the sword seeks his powyre out with a speed that matches Jehovah’s own. Again he is stung and withdraws his tendrils. My bleeding has stopped, but I resist replacing my jaw—it would take dangerous moments longer then my eyes since for them I had ruined ones to reform while for this I'd have to transform construct.

I could send to him, but this close he'll see any powyre flow as an attack and fight it. I could make a declaration to all and hope that one of my bothers or Eve would take it as simply a message to pass on to Jehovah—mmm that is best. I prepare to declare, but no—my father is attacking me again. No moments to spare, and too dangerous to divide my attention.

He has surrounded me with his and Eve’s powyre. From all directions faster and faster, tendrils formed as spikes shoot at me, trying to catch and rip apart my physical body. With full concentration I am protected and more. The blade can not be in multiple places at once, yet it is connected to me now—is throughout me. I am no longer bleeding powyre but it is still linked. We are bonded, perhaps as Mars intended. I have some of my sword’s nature. The spikes of powyre touch me and are stung. Jehovah is not yet willing to take damage to do me damage—weakness in the holy white. I push out of his sphere of onslaught, my tentacles out and propelling myself.

My applied awareness enhanced by my sword, I find a pattern in the currents. Echoes of Jehovah’s domain and the battlefield give me direction. I travel with my absolute knowledge of location. Confident concentrated application of motion zen, and with focus zen skilled manipulation of the construct, gives me speeds that Jehovah can’t match. No one can... unless perhaps they knew to look for the patterns too. And having watched me go, knowing now it can be done will that be enough motivation to find my discipline? Will he, or perhaps Satan or Lilith, figure it out now? Even one of my brothers? And then what, the information passed on and on until it is as common as wings and roads? Ah but I have a head start, it is something. And this is future, in the now I shouldn't worry. Even if he could catch me directly he fears me—weakness in the holy white. He wouldn't leave his caravan behind.

Why weakness? Couldn't he have defeated me easily—fought past the sting? He was just being wary of the unknown. And a sting he has until now only felt from Satan. He should know how limited the powyre of my sword is, and must guess that it cannot do much damage. But still he isn’t sure—something in my blade he senses and I don't? Maybe. And so he will remain cautious. As I should, until I master its will or is it my own...? And how can I know with certainty what Azi Dahaka, that which defined “weapon”, can do.

I rub the hilt of my blade. My memory seems a little unclear—details blending, fuzzy, must be symptoms of purification. It did have a slight will of its own, didn't it?—a hunger at least. But, it truly awakened only when I bled into it.

I... feel connected still. Yes, it is awake still. And my hunger is its own. No, no! I am the master of it. It is my hunger and my will. My father left me no choice but to fight back, to... to defend myself. I know its sharpness and it is as pure and beautiful as my voice was. My singing, I haven’t done it in so long. Not since before this war began have I let myself go. I should now.

On impulse I hold Azi Dahaka before me as I sing. I dance with it. Letting all the tentacles I ever had come out and move with my song. Beautiful, perfect, free. I am becoming comfortable with Azi Dakaka. This comfort I feel with a purpose. It is cleansing me of my father's violation. Letting me remake myself in spirit as I have remade myself in body. Yes, music reverberates within my lifeforce again.

Glory.

I am the weapon now. My sword is just my tip. The daevuraes all can come for me and I will stand against them. Gods only should I flee from, anything less best flee from me.

…Replacing any God would have and did put me beyond Death’s reach—directly at least. So truly, even with Jehovah, I can’t see the logic in him wanting that. If someone wanted me to end Gods it must not have been someone inside the Six, which steers me back to the Sibyls.

My blade was the first—defined “weapon”. Perhaps they just didn’t know it’s potential wouldn’t stop growing. Have all these ages shuffling though memories made me see patterns and motives that don’t exist? Oh well of course that's true, and for whatever reason this is an opportunity to order in my mind what happened with my first crucial transformations. I must squeeze out the excess and focus on logic from facts.

Oh oh—so much will be irrelevant upon my arrival. This is for getting my mind in the right state. For this new start to work I must be as sane as possible.

I must answer or ignore the internal questions that filled the time void of my rule. Do I have to retreat and ask even more basic questions? Was anyone manipulating me outside my memory? Even, was Azi Dahaka really the first weapon?

I know I shouldn't start doubting without end, but I remember facing someone who made me question. And was he an enemy of the Six? Even, was he connected to the Sibyls…?

“I am Dosojin and I am here.” His message is sent at the head of a remarkably tight powyre flow, which makes clear a quite refined skill.

It is difficult to sense him. His lifeforce is formed like the edge of my blade—difficult to detect when faced with only it’s edge. “I know you Dosojin. Have you come to make war with me?” I let out my tentacles to stop myself. Squinting I can see him with my eyes and sprint toward him to halve the distance in a blink. I observe him in more detail and draw out my sword.

He sends back. “I am a warrior.” He is holding something much like my blade. Its aura is a brighter blue—stronger. I can barely make out differences in shape—longer and thinner. For sure it is a weapon, a sword with as straight forward a purpose as Azi Dahaka.

He hovers in the distance. Approaching no closer with my blade now drawn, I judge him. He is weaker then me by a third, but does his blade's advantage offset that? He lost much when killed by Satan, but I suspect he was always less powerful then me. However his sword's bright aura and his skilled application of zen forces my respect and makes me wonder how much of an advantage it is to be the most powerful of the Godlings. After all, I have spent such effort figuring out how I am better then the Gods because of my weaker lifeforce—my freedom from myself. Now I see this creature, with a furry face and pointed ears, wrapped in tendrils like my own, only colored to match his soul's spectrum. With a blade, seemingly greater then my own—my untested blade, Dosojin is an opportunity to learn.

…But with him that time my blade remained untested and he remained a mystery to plague me. Some part of my blade still remembers him, there is more to this memory….

“I must ask what your intentions are now that you have no loyalties.”

My distracted thoughts betray me and I speak before thinking carefully. “I don’t know.” I bite down on my tongue, punishing myself and thinking through his possible reactions. I realize it was not so bad a thing to say, and loosen my tongue with relief. It bleeds for a moment then heals.

Dosojin nods as if expecting that answer and says. “I came here despite the wishes of my Gods, my parents. They worry about my actions being too rash. They had wanted me to explore the territory of the lost Gods as the Six are thought of, but not as soon as I did. But I believe it was good that I came as early as I did. If I had come later perhaps Lilith would have captured me, or a more experienced Satan, and then I would have been a lost soul. As it is, I am weaker now as my aura declares, but ten times as dangerous as your bleeding self has testified.” I no longer bleed powyre from my lost tentacle but the memory causes me to cringe. “I have tasted your soul and know a little of your complex nature. You have a bit of almost all the Six in you—their natures pulsating out of tune.

“This I foresee—you'll need all six in strength to reach a balance. A microcosm I think of the joining they once had with each other.” I nod in agreement. “So I have no desire to fight you. You are not my enemy. In fact I think we are brothers of a sort. Brothers of the blade.” He draws his sword and holds it out to full extension. “Hold out your blade like I have.” I comply, hoping he truly can’t turn during one of his speed bursts.

He shoots to me and our blades cross. He is stopped beside me, his furred face, his whole head, alien but not ugly. Neither of our blades have broken, neither have budged. The urge to fight pulses down the edge into the hilt and infects my hand. With my mouth I say. “My blade has a mind of its own. It wants your heart.”

He shakes his head. “No it is only you. Your blade is an extension. It is the fractured state of yourself that you recognize in the blade. You must not....” My arm acts on its own—releasing pressure and striking at his head.

His blade stops mine—again and again. Each time he is there before me. I feel enraged by this, but another part is accepting even mocking. Am I so fractured? He shoots away from me while I pause to ponder and continues. “...Must not allow a fracture part to rule the whole. Our blades have met and neither established dominance. We will be drawn together for combat until dominance is established. You are not ready to face me, and I do not want to destroy you. Your blade will have to be sated by the promise of a future battle between us.” He shoots away into the distance and sends back. “Only when you are whole. Only when you wholly are the one swinging your blade will you be able to face me. Until then good luck.” And he is gone.

…I’d forgotten that. Was that important? I’m remembering it so it must be, as an unsettled thing at least. I did feel a kinship to him and then there was the battle with my kin—so soon after....

I picture Eve’s realm clearly in my mind. I can still outrun anyone besides Dosojin. Soon I will be the fastest again. Yes I will take back the powyre he won from me, and taste what his soul's nature is in the process.

Ariel, the youngest—he must be my prey. Anything less wouldn’t be fitting. I must make my declaration of independence as loud as possible. I must snatch the youngest from their loving arms.

I see the speck of Eve’s domain. I come closer. Jehovah sends me a warning to stay away. I ignore him. My brothers rise to face me—a dozen and more of them. My full blooded brothers mixed in.... I have no loyalties, and none have loyalties to me.

I spin past them, twice any of their best speed or agility. I sense Eve and Jehovah's auras ablaze and a soul I see—young, bright white and green. Yes and is who must be—yes Ariel, I see you hiding immersed in that cloud of powyre pouring forth from father and Eve.

I speed closer and the cloud resolves itself into powyre auras, individual. I get close enough to see with my eyes the same time my awareness recognizes they are a hundred identical soul auras. Strength wise each one is just under half my sword—about like what a grandchild of mine would have—one one-hundredth of my own, one one-thousandth of Eve’s or Jehovah’s powyre core. Each one with wings like my brothers, each one flying about—a century of weak children.

A burst of powyre, a wave comes over me—another birth, another hundred come forth. I am too stunned to react to my senses—primed by applied awareness and motion—warning me. A spear goes though my chest from behind. I look down at the blade and shaft protruding from my chest. The blade widens. No longer a spear for piercing, but one for chopping as well. It is yanked back, ripping a hole in my center.

Out of instinct I move slightly to avoid the next attack. I lose two tentacles and half my right arm as I turn to face my brother Michael. My left arm draws my blade, my dear Azi Dahaka. I’ve never held it with this hand. There is a difference in how this arm wants to swing it. Oh, I truly am a fractured soul.

I pull my tentacles in as I wholly dodge Michael’s next strike. I send. “I was hoping to take Eve’s powyre from Ariel—the newest offense, but you dear brother—half—the oldest of her children will make a stronger statement, yes.”

He frowns and sends back the next instant. “I didn’t want to believe you to be an enemy. I wouldn’t have chased after you, not until now. Now I finally see the obvious need for the end of you.”

I am aware of our brothers all around us. They've made a sphere formation, leaving plenty of room for us two to fight. So wrong of them to think they could stop me if I really wanted to leave. I continue to dodge Michael's attacks with his axe spear weapon. Letting him get close, I send at the head of a jabbing flow. “So how does my blood taste.” I flash a smile and again send jab. “It is a river of hate I send to you—tainting your heart.”

Revulsion and fear spreads across his face. I sense his pushing away the powyre he has won from me, but still not absorbed into his core. I let out tentacles and shoot forward slicing Azi Dahaka deep into his left wing. Oh the pleasure as we go through.

He spins away but my blade still drinks—conduit straight through his wound down into his core. I hold out the stump of my right arm and my severed hand returns to me, summoned. It had not drifted far, nor was it's connection to me severed completely. Mm and my powyre's returning too, Michael's rejecting it as best he can. Oh the pleasure, as my wounds seal with the use of what I drain from him.

I dodge his attacks as my newly healed arm reclaims my sword. Pausing not a moment, I shoot forward and slice open his right wing, just as he heals his left. I am aware of another of my half brothers attacking me from behind. I dodge, turn and strike, just missing Raphael’s wing. He attacks back viciously with a white blade of judgment, but misses.

Now I sense the kindred soul of a full blooded brother coming at me from behind—the fear to face me, betrayal. I shoot between Michael and Raphael, then turn to see Azreal with a blazing sword of wrath held out before him. He says. “I will end you and your lies before they are spoken.” He comes at me so slow to my eyes, swinging wild, untrained. I have not tasted enough green, but I should leave. I shoot out of the sphere, cutting deep into the stomach of a young brother I had not met before. His powyre flows into me as I shoot away. But it is too easy a trail to follow, so I reluctantly let go the conduit from his wound through my sword to me and shoot away fast as I can go, back the direction I came. When I have out distanced my pursuers I angle again for my original destination, the river Styx.

My brothers hate me. They all do, my full blooded brothers included. Azreal’s rage haunts me. I don’t want their hate. I am still affected by them. I am not as free as I thought, even without loyalties their opinions matter to me. I am still bound to my family. I am alone. I am lonely. I want to be a part of the battle. I want to be on a side. But I am on no side. Both want me gone. Perhaps now both want me dead, ended.

I growl. It's this new green powyre in me, making me emotional and unsure. It must find its place with the other five colors. I must let my soul settle. If I can find enough balance to blend, I could attempt to stretch a tendril to eyrh. I would sneak past Kronos and seek solace in riding the oceans of Gaea's world through the eyes of a giant sea creature.

But that—it would only push me along the circle of thought that will end up back where I am now. It's where I always end up, facing the chaos of my heritage. Even diluted as my soul as born now is, I face the polar thoughts of blue and white. Some clarity, some potential of balance has come with green. I believe this. I have to try.

My powyre is in motion. My sword is drawn. The powyre flows through me like the currents of the oceans of Gaea's world—or perhaps the growing sea under hyvn proper. Yes the construct—the powyre in motion—must preform like this there. It is fluidity. I am one. We are one. Finally the focus comes, the memory deciphered, I understand the speed of Dosojin.

It is his will applied to hyvn as much as his powyre—will as a state of zen. He makes it adjust to him. Half of his movement is the universe reorienting itself around him. This is not something I will be able to do. Not yet, if ever. I understand this. He is of a different nature then me. I will need to taste his blood to understand completely.

...Why was I so sure I couldn't? It was the incompatibility of the focus and will zen states wasn't it? But didn't I overcome that? And did I finish the fights? Did I ever taste his core, is that how I overcame....?

This time, before black overshadowed the rest of my being, is so fragmented. I just can’t remember.

Tell me! It is you Azi Dahaka that is feeding me back these memories I must have stored in you. So, finish this chronological flicker view. I’m impatient to purify and focus my mind. These morsels are tasty in pieces, but dangerous in their distractions. I can’t mull over them all separately. I must have a center to think out from and look at the whole of my past. Knowing details of my pre God days is essential. I know this. The part of me that is you must have agreed. We must all agree. Unity in purpose. One being, one mind. A center looking out, focused and unafraid....

I see the mountain. I am aware of it. I imagine the Great Tree atop it--the Father, the Watcher, the Keeper of Time, the All Seeing and All Knowing. He knows I am here staring back at him, with my blade itching for his bark—his blood of knowledge and peace.

Except no—the Father is asleep, and further he is not a peaceful entity. Strange to call him an entity, but that is all he is. By the stories of the Six the Father and the Mother had conflict. She left and it is a mystery, they say, to all but her.

The Father does not have the answers I seek. The answers will be unique to me. So I am the only one who can answer myself.

A question is who am I loyal to. I must be loyal to myself, but I have nothing to be loyal about. I am alone. I have nothing, but my will, my soul, my body, and Azi Dahaka my weapon.

I let powyre of six colors flow from my outer core. It twists through my body and sword cycling—never staying still—faster and faster until it is a kind of blur, until there are no longer distinct colors of heritage. I imagine my white tentacles I modified into clothes, the ring protecting my head, and my skin I'd dulled to a lighter blue. Yes, I see my white hair and blue skin, my black eyes, and my red yellow blade dipped in green blood—all the colors are mixing, blending so fast I am cloaked in gray.

I hold this thought and with motion and awareness zen applied, will it into being. I want to be as gray as the unused construct is to my body's eye. I look at my hands. My tentacles I use to cover them are gray. I loosen them and check my skin—all is gray. I am successful. I will blend into the construct easier.

For now it is a cloak. The chaos still rules my inner core, but my outer is following my body's example. With time how deep will I be able to blend? Yes, all my domain should be gray. I need to see if I can cloak physicality from both eyes and awareness.

…I became gray for balance, and to hide. It’s fitting that I keep this color then. Oh... and then... oh there’s a blur of fighting, memories unclear. I lost you for a bit didn’t I? Then I got you back in a new body’s grip. And finally I came to face....

Satan is here. Lilith is here. Their auras blaze. My desire, my sword’s desire for retribution intertwined—we are joined. We are one. We are focus, motion, and awareness zens applied. I cut through daevases and daevuraes alike—their weapons cut in half just as their bodies are.

In moments I face Satan. His pride does not let him run. My mother’s sense lets her flee me. A great sword of wrath forms out of black fire in his hand. It is twice the length and width of Azreal's, but it's aura is hardly brighter and shows my experienced sense fatal flaws in the form. I cut through it and him. My attack is so swift, he has time only to die in a flood of black light.

His blazing lifeforce is like the bulk of Chimaera, a fatal hindrance. He instinctively reincarnates himself only to bleed massive amounts of blackness again in death. His great reserves of powyre are wasted against me. I slash through him, cutting his body apart a dozen different times from a dozen different directions. Each time he wastes too much concentration stubbornly remaking his body for his attacks to be effective.

He realizes finally the futility—slow even to think at this battle's speed. His lifeforce pulls away from the latest reincarnation I've killed. I follow curious as Satan flows into the nearest daevas. He overwhelms his weak get's soul and uses its body as an anchor for enough lifeforce to attack back with full attention.

His tendrils slam into me, and try to trap. I'm reminded of his brother, my father. As then in white so now in black, they have the strength to tear me apart. But I won't be still and I cut through or dodge every attempted grip. I don't slow or tire, his bled blackness sustains me even as it grays.

I cut through his desperation and reach the body he's anchored himself to, then I begin his killings again. As I do so I focus on his spirit, the center of his core, which glimmers for an instant each time I slay him. If he waits too long to resurrect himself my blade digs deep into his disembodied lifeforce and feeds faster.

He resurrects himself purely on instinct now, and his powyre bleeds closer to gray then black. Gray is neutral, no heritage. For me it is a symptom of balance, for him it just means the cycle is set on wane. His end is inevitable and I have no qualms against it. He did not birth me. I am not a brother to him. He never was anything but an enemy. In ending him, I have no fears of making a mistake.

That which he is now resists the end as best he can in a fight now faster then his conscious thought. Maybe I should, but I don't feel any great animosity towards him. It's just that it's his ending I committed myself to. My decision made must stay enough motivation to build and hold a free identity.

I launch myself straight into his larger body—killing him yet again—except this time I don’t shoot past. I stay in the middle of his body as he resurrects himself. The edge of Azi Dahaka hunts his glimmer and we kill him faster and faster. I draw his core in as a flood, as a river, as an ocean, as a universe. I am twice what I have ever been and still so much more to drink in. Powyre spills out in great waves. I can’t take it all in. Even my sword is sated.

I withdraw, shooting back, dizzy from all the absorbed powyre. Satan is still a God. In the pause I take to reorient myself he resurrects himself yet again. I don't attack immediately and instead judge his aura. Yes, he's still a God, but the weakest now—maybe only four times my strength.

Consciousness flickers in his eyes and he sends to me. “I hate you.”

I send back. “Then you hate yourself.” And I cut through him again and again and again.

He tries to flee with full intent, his spirit taking half the powyre he originally had. I open myself to his shrunken core with the multitude of conduits my sword has won and drain him. No one else is around, all have run. I take him in as he runs. His spirit is not given a chance to resurrect even if it still had enough powyre to do so. No, I drain so fast and hard a void in the construct replaces him—a nothingness—a reverse. Nothingness coming back at me. Something I sense but am not aware of. I shoot back away from it. The void that was Satan follows.

A negative of powyre? Oh I know it. This is bad. It is graeyness, a focused bit of myst, that chases me. This is very bad.

Satan’s ending has released this. But is it the powyre released that I didn’t absorb that has ripped a hole into myst, or the vacuum of powyre created ending him? Whatever happened, now I must hope this bit of myst is just chasing me as the closest richest powyre source, and is not some residue of Satan with a vendetta. I must give it a richer source then me.

I shoot straight for Hyvn Proper until the graeyness that chases me takes an interest in that place more then me. It shoots off to destroy something or someone and I pay it no more attention.

…Yes, and that dark djinn flew straight into hyvn proper—finding the warmth of the Goddess Adrastea’s heart, and pulling her into oblivion to be Satan’s bride. I had discovered Gods don’t end alone, but this didn’t stop the war.

Did my ending of Satan inspire Eyvll to try the same with my father and replace him as the white one? She had been gifted with a blade to match mine, to balance mine. So then does this steer the blame back to Death. If I hadn’t stopped her she would have ended both Eve and my father and then…. Of course, the dark djinn. He expected that I not Adrastea would join Satan in oblivion. The swords were the ultimate weapon, ending their target and then being ended themselves along with their bearer by the dark djinn.

Eyvll didn’t have speed like I had. She and her blade would have been ended like I would have if I hadn’t been remaking myself better and better. Of all the Gods, oh yes, Death would have known first the secrets of myst and could have guessed what would have happened. He probably even killed his own to experiment. After all his son saw nothing in remaking lesser siblings into weapons, like Azi Dahaka—sword made from a dragon.

I never saw this possibility before—did I? I must have in all the ages of my thinking, but only now do I have the right perspective on it. Yet I can’t leave these thoughts. Questions persist—like the other blades not of Mars’ and Death’s make—Dosojin’s and my brothers’. They matched Azi Dahaka, could they have ended Gods without Death’s blessing? If I ignored truth in favor of simplicity, then no. But I wish for my sanity to last, and nothing seems to blast mine away like an unaccepted truth....

...My sword hand is cut off, and I am forced back by a combined attack from Uriel and Michael. Uriel is using a heavy ended sword with an powyre aura at par. I sense no flaws in its form, and again I must reevaluate their threat level. Have all my brothers unique and mighty weapons?

Raphael stands behind them, just in front of my drifting blade and hand, holding up his simple white sword of judgment. With my awareness applied I follow the conduit between my wound and him and know he made that clean masterful stroke. I note Azreal shooting in behind him as I take half a moment to grow a new hand and create a blazing sword of my personal wrath to form in the palm of my new hand. I declare with a short distance burst. “Azi Dahaka is mine.”

…What a shock that must have been for me. Newly a God with what I though was the first and greatest of weapons, I lost it and a hand in combat I thought I had perfected. But it was hardly a moment before it was back in my remade hand. The pace of that time was incredible. And suddenly I found myself not alone....

My full brother Hanael declares, short range. “Lucifer you are my brother. I no longer must be silent with my thoughts.”

My youngest full brother Kepharel declares, short range. “I also no longer will be quiet about my feelings. Brother Lucifer you deserve our respect. Our father has done nothing but torture you and us other Lilith born since the war began. It is not fair, and I must question my loyalty to any that would be so blind without end.”

My mind is abuzz. I split send to both Hanael and Kepharel. “Accept loyalty to me and I will promise my protection. I must go save Eve now, but if you agree go into the Limbo and wait. Go quickly and randomly. Let it be a surprise, and go far so no one may find you, then send for me in the general direction of Eve’s realm. I will pick up the message and follow it back. If you are truly my brothers you will do this.”

…They served me well as generals. But I never felt the bond of friendship with them like I did with Michael, Eve’s and my father’s child born just after me. The faces that stick out in these memories, Dosojin, Eyvll, and Michael are all ones with blades and skills that matched mine—or close. I respected them, and they were kindred spirits, perhaps fighting just like me to have individuality in the face of those that would manipulate them.

So many memories stirring now. The vast majority I ignore at the cost of proper understanding, but I sense we’re nearing the end of our journey, and I won’t be cuddling my blade so intimately after—I mustn't.

Will these memories, these lives, slip away back into Azi Dahaka—the part of me now in the form of a blade that I wish to keep separate. Yes a distance from even my oldest companion—especially from it. This is necessary, and despite all the other blades with potential—only this one has actually slain a God. I can’t abandon it, not just because it is a part of me, but because of what such as.... Oh yes, Torrit. Let’s summon a bit about that one....

I send to Torrit. “Good. I have a job for you. You are the eldest of the daevuraes. I want you to take your brothers and all the daevases and make a realm of your own. This will be a city for you all, a reward of sorts for you loyalty and work on my behalf. When you have the basics decided find me, and I will help make your new realm. Also Torrit—I will look to you to blame for any of the daevases breaking the laws. You have authority over them, and so are also responsible for them. You may use your fellow daevuraes to help you in this. Go now.”

…Yes, that was when I was playing at being the black one, and he was playing at believing I was. I proved with memories I had Satan in me, and thought none could see past my aura's thick black layer of soul....

I send to Torrit. “I see things are coming along well here. I offer you the honor of naming our city.”

He bows to me and sends. “Thank you Lucifer Cye Ahur. I have actually given this some thought m’lord. I had thought only to give you a suggestion, I did not expect such an honor. You are too kind.” Torrit makes a declaration. “I name this city Axolyte. Let it be a capital of Hyvn to make all envious of our glory.”

…False flattery. I knew then I needed to watch that one especially. Did I somehow forget....

I apologize to Kepharel for the shortened stretch to eyrh and explain that helping out with Axolyte had drained me. Fully back in my throne room, we open our eyes. Hanael nods to us and relaxes his guard. I thank him for patiently watching over us and then ask them both. “What do you think of Torrit?”

Hanael shakes his head. “He is your enemy. He was made with one purpose in mind—him more then any of the other daevuraes—to destroy you. Remember the timing of his birth? I do.” He stares off, his eyes dilating. “I remember Gabriel and Raphael talking about it.” He refocuses on me. “He may say sweet things now, but you can be sure he is plotting some indirect way of hurting you.”

I smile. “You don’t think it is possible that he has rejected his conditioning—that he sees me as the black one, not just Lucifer—that being loyal to me, would be the best thing for him?”

Kepharel speaks up. “I imagine if he is still loyal to his black nature and his mission of birth, then he is tearing himself apart on the inside. You are his father now. You are the black one. Your aura declares this. But you title yourself Lucifer, the one he was born to kill. He must sense something in you.” He pauses with a squint, then continues. “I can't see past the blackness unless you let me, but your manner tells me you are still my brother.” He frowns. “I expect Torrit knows your nature and will resolve his issues with you soon, if he hasn't already.” He nods. “He will side against you and will justify this by thinking that ending you and becoming the new black one is freeing his father. Plus, you not being a child of black makes you unworthy and must really irritate him.”

Hanael growls. “We should toss him into the Styx.”

Kepharel shakes his head. “I don't think that's needed... yet. Remember daevuraes were made sexless, even Satan didn't want them having children. They stand alone, and without blades at par.”

Hanael intensifies his look and says. “It's true we have never seen weapons on par with yours or our brothers in daevura hands, but we can't know that they don't exist hidden or won't exist soon.”

Kepharel nods slightly. “Hanael is right. We can't know for sure, but with simple precautions Torrit can be contained.” He hesitates, lowers his head a little, then continues. “Even though I don't think ending him is necessary, I do see him as a threat and don’t understand why you would give him more influence by supporting his place among the black forces. I don't see how he can overcome you, but sabotage is grasped much easier, and I'd think cutting away his authority would be a sure step towards containment”

I smile and say. “If I keep him busy with responsibilities that I can check upon, he has less time to work against me, and it will be more difficult to hide such negative efforts. Plus I believe—I know, he has the capacity to outgrow his birth mission.”

Hanael says. “Like he has the powyre to grow a sex?”

I sake my head. “That is enforced. I know what you are saying though, he could of course overcome his mating cap if he increased his powyre to my status. With the ability to create, I can imagine a hidden realm of his gradually growing strong enough to make a challenge. But how would he expand his lifeforce, by ending me? He can't do that without a realm and blade to back him, and he can't get a realm or openly carry a blade without ending me. No, his mission is what time will overcome.”

Hanael tilts his head. “But you alone overcame Satan, after tearing through his army. Not that I wish to compare Torrit to you, but....”

I interrupt. “Yes, I tore through all to face Satan. Torrit was nothing to me then, and is so much less to me now.”

Hanael apologizes for his offense then Kepharel says. “Maybe he likes his mission of hate. Why, even after all the leaves of the Father drop, would he change?”

I smile. “No hope of change? What of you then my brothers?

Reluctantly they bow their heads, trapped by the logic of their own changed loyalties.

…So, we thought we understood him. I even thought I knew how time would change him. But he outgrew us—simply expanded his mission. And how much was I the manipulator? I took responsibility, which put me in a position to manipulate. But I know—I feel deep in my core—that I was not free with that responsibility. Who was trapping me? It couldn’t have only been myself could it?

But if… I realized that, or thought that—then when Torrit finally made his coup attempt…. I let it happen. Did I? There’s no more time to think. I must resolve this. Did I throw the fight with Torrit as a trap, so he could instead bear the responsibilities that had chained me?

But Azi Dahaka I kept. I couldn’t let him have it. Was this refusal just an act of self preservation? At that final moment did I rebel against oblivion? I can’t remember. Why do you refuse me these final memories?

I have to find a peace. I have been gifted with forgotten thoughts. These final moments must be dedicated to centering myself as much as possible. First I must know that this fracturing of myself is a direct result of a choice I made when I was whole. I must trust that that decision was made in wisdom. I am weak now so that I will not be rejected when we arrive in eyrh. Why aren’t the details of this fresh, it was so recent?

Those with too much innate powyre would be rejected by the Mother upon arrival. Yet many I am traveling with have decided to accept the rejection. Why? Because it is not complete. They won’t be thrown back into myst, but they will be trapped in something called the “abyss” which will be connected to our target world. That’s the reason I refused. Trapped—I won’t be trapped. And more, I wanted the freedom to leave the world for a better one if I so desired. Is this another reason why I can’t let my blade go? I am so reliant on it to be free that it is a trap. But that thought unravels me because it is me. The weakening was so great that I could not hold all my old thoughts in this body. Memory is tied to lifeforce, so I had to store great portions of it in Azi Dahaka—cold storage. Oh my mind so vast, but empty.

I must know that what’s left of me is the core of me—my glimmer of spirit. I am more a child of who I was, then a lesser part of who I was. This is my final moment. Talking to myself in the womb before my birth. I made the choice—I can only go forward.

I’ll go almost two hundred times faster again. Again I’ll be knocked out, perhaps a kind of death. Then finally I will be at the base time rate of eyrh.

I hope the new me figures myself out....

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