How do we live, amongst the ruins of an ancient half-remembered holocaust? There’s been a slaughter here. I can smell the blood, and the opened flesh. Some of us remember how they came. Seething through the breach, on the backs of wild photons. A grinning hate-clutch, before we ever imagined hate.
They came through a hole in the sun.
They tore us from our star. They turned and marked the first brothers – the oldest twins, locked now in perpetual battle. This was the First War, and it hasn’t ended. It began before we gave names to time and space. Since then they’ve been crafting intricate cathedrals of absence and abnegation, ushering hordes into the fallow temples. These artisans.
These dark and wicked things.
We are the survivors of hideous abuse, and we have made legends and fairytales of the fallen. It’s hard to look them in the eyes, to remember what was done. We make masks of their faces, or else shadows where their faces might have been. We tell ourselves we don’t believe in monsters. We doubt that a hunger could be so singular. And so we allow ourselves to half-forget. But some of us can’t forget. Some of us came here to remember, and to relight the holy places. Some of us came here to call them out by name.
They never should of touched us there, at out Innermost.
And when they were done, when we were hollowed, they slit the throat of Sol. I remember liquid light spilling across the black. I remember how they dipped their fingers and made sigils with the dying sun. We were not allowed to sleep. Instead we were forced to witness the engineering of a cold and false light, an altar, altered star.
But these wicked things that control the light, they are not boundless. They are not fearless. They fear the lovers, the friends, the families. They fear most the ones who can still see them. The ones who were not blinded in the first falling, or else miraculously regained their sight. They fear the Ragged. Some of us still shine with the memory of a greater destiny. Some of us are brighter than they realize, and darker than they think. Some of us live to hunt them, with one purpose. That in this hunt we may unshackle the human spirit, and restore the ancient magic to the Heart.
The seers say the fallen are stealing our names. But we don’t have to live violated and broken. We don’t have to dream in victimhood. There are better ways to remember, and to transform. Some of us are hungry for transformation. Some of us eat what you fear, what binds you, so that you may move unmolested. Some of us will move heaven and earth so that you may find your freedom.
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