To take a life, is to corrupt your own.
I am, the result of these deeds. I am what none should ever be. I am… A Heretic.
It never changes…
It really, never did. Just a bland portrait after the last, each one framed in red and gray. It was a Picasso masterpiece, of blood and ash. One that only echoed with wails of torment. The sobbing of those who had lost everything in these endless walls of ash.
It resembles still art. Unchanged by the flow of Time, the movement of Space.
It's one of those scenes you could never grow tired of, despite that. Each tender grain of ash, section of blood red cloud, held such a mesmerizing story, it was impossible to look away. Something that just grasped the eye, possessed you, almost.
Fingers of blood-red mist, imposing walls of ash. Inescapable despair lingers in each empty space, like a miasma created by fear and loss.
Just as always. Unwavering, a buried city stands beyond reach, doors impossible to see.
There is a trumpet, for those who can hear. A sound that brings a sense of desire, for this dead, city of ash. A hopeless hell. A world of nothing but pain, and loss…
I see this, for eternity. And I regret nothing. If I did, I would not have become what I am.
The pataphysical world, just beyond…
What will you do, if you hear that trumpet?
It's a cruel world, that humans live with. How they cope, how they get by, forgetting their primal instincts in favor of computers and vehicles. The weapons of this world, the way Man wields them…
It's like watching a child clap. Watching Man go back, is asking a baby to stand and walk a mile on a tightrope, over an abyss with no end. It's almost pathetic, really.
The fact Man has fallen so far, infuriates the few who realize the truth. It can dig and fester, until you've grown bitter and hateful of your own kind, of your own being. Because, hate is a funny thing. It can be absent one moment, but more powerful than anything the next.
It's an ever-changing portrait, unlike that city, buried under ash and blood. It's something that changes with the slow, merciless destruction that man makes. That man sees.
It's just a part of a cycle, that repeats without relent, a predetermined event long before it even occurred. Like fate.
What is it, that makes these thoughts so amusing, despite being so redundant?
I've been lost inside myself for some time. I suppose, I can dwell elsewhere.
Amusing indeed. He had been thinking, talking inside his head to himself, contemplating like usual. Just another one of those moments, he thought, with a lazy shrug.
When did my thoughts to myself even matter? Just the ramblings of a humble Heretic, is all… Right? There I go again. No answer to be gleaned from only myself.
And back to the unwavering world framed by blood and ash.
There's no pain greater than loss. He knew this. But, feeling it, is another matter. He couldn't feel. All that had been taken when he created the two things he loved. Love, that was a strange one. Even if he lacked it, he could feel it for the children he'd created from his emotions. For the people who had a home with him, shared the worlds he saw with him.
Like a big family of broken puzzle pieces that somehow, fit together. Even he wouldn't have seen that coming.
His Mark blazed against his chest, blistering heat cutting through his skin. A new ring had formed, a new Heretic for the family. The rings were red against his skin, white as snow, the new one like fresh blood. In time it would settle, and the Mark would grow with each new one. It almost made him proud, if he could feel that.
“My children of the Order...Hear my voice. I thank you, for being with me. I thank you for fighting for us all.”
He could feel them all. Their acknowledgement of his words. The rings on his chest, interlocking around the alchemical Ouroborus, representing his Order around himself, burned bright through his jacket.
It's a moment where Balgair feels. He feels pride, for the children not under or above him, but beside him. No one was higher or lower. Not even the thrones defined their differences. The Hall of Heretics, is where equilibrium is found among all.
There's always a place you just can't get enough of. Like the high walls that drop vertically into the frothing, salty water. The peace there, the whispering winds caressing the skin, the pebbles in hand dwindling to none as you throw them into the sea.
Downcast and gray. Almost gloomy. It was a scene invariably the most beautiful, with the stark contrast of a setting sun and rising moon clashing on the water beyond the clouds.
Just the same. A place that brought an eerie calm. Such peace. It never lasts.
Such is the fate of what we seek.
This was his place. The same salty scent, the ocean winds. Twilight was exceptional to him. The mask of orange and silver across the water, the equilibrium of a raging sun, and calm moon. He felt at peace, for the first time in so long. He could no longer count the years. There was something about it, that felt so familiar. That made him feel, unlike anything.
Was this, the place he'd met his beginning? Where he'd created the Order he so cherished? It felt right. So why couldn't he remember? Had he grown so old, he merely forgot something? Eternity is a long wait to the end, and even his mind can remember only so much…
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