Across the long lawns below the central tower of the Last University, the grass defies itself. In the mind, a field is a million individual blades blending into one. But when Stars of the steppe arrive, they make mental category into physical reality, each blade blending with the next until the trembling, green pasture becomes blinding, fixed tract. But even this transformation, which spreads across the whole of one of the continent's densest settlements, is minute against what occurs above. A distraught god once promised that he would do anything to hold back the Heat and the Dark. Now, he proves his intent, yet wonders to himself if he can be stopped; if, perhaps, eradication might be better.
This week on Spring in Hieron: See Where You're Standing
Taken all at once, the unearned length of my life, it is easy to call this unavoidable. After all, before I could hold a chalice, I could only drink with tooth and maw, my thirst unsated, as blood stained the ground. Before I could store unfinished thoughts on a shelf, I could only think in agitation, plans and ideas twirling forever, unending in my focus, lest they be lost to distraction. Before I could hold my love, I coveted raw connection, dreamed an I into being even as I was sent to destroy identity itself.
And so, I suspect, as the world becomes more real, more permanent, as those I swore to protect suffer in their sacrifice, even as I too dissolve and join the new firmament, I will have no champions. It will be easy to make sense of my decision this way: 'He was always a beast.' But that would be wrong. Writing these words is a selfish act of guilty conscience, I know. And yet I write them, because I must, because in writing them I am convinced of what must be done.
I will not steep to the vulgarity of cruel maths, a list of how many we'd already killed, or how vast the future I build might be. The suffering is real. The suffering is, after all, the motive. And so that should be first.
When my father told me what had been done, to the man I'd pinned to the bottom of the world, I saw opportunity. With His final ploy undone, the well of divinity had quietly been unblocked. I needed no clever stratagem. My adversarial source could be held back in the old way, a new strata. And so I began my work, drawing in detail for the first time in ages a new world. The ink flowed fresh, no rust to knock away, no lack of new ideas. I was born to steal words, but I lived for writing them.
And then, in that vile cavern, I learned that my dreams were too humble. The ease with which I did it. Hadrian loved her as dear a companion as I did my Wizard. Perhaps, as ours in wisdom kind, theirs in strength. Thoughtless. Grotesque. If anything slithered in the Advocate's room, it was me. It was not only in what I did Death's Servant, though, it was that I so easily broke a promise I made to my aunt, and hid my strength from her, as I once did, so long ago.
That is when I knew. That is I felt it, in my wounds, and in my heart, and in whatever motivates the void in the deep core of every living being into glorious motion. That is when I knew that I had to bring into being a world of consequence, of possibilities irrevertible, each moment concentrated justice in its inability to be undone. No second chances. No erasure. No reconfiguration. Immanence alone. A world without us.
-An excerpt from the journals of Samot, the Unbroken Lord in Exile and Repose
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