Link to article: Builder of Ages.
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[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] What is a beginning? One might as well ask what is an ending? They seem so purposeful, so...grand. The starting gun, and the last door, of whatever it is they measure. But what are they, really? What is the start? Do we ask science, or faith, or that sodden clay of memory? In the great chain of relation and causation, at what point does anything truly start or end? There is an impulse to put perception forward...it begins when we notice, when we see, when we record...but what hubris is this. That mankind is so great that all reality must kneel and accept our attention when it is given, and find fulfillment with its touch. Still, with very few exceptions, we are what we are. We must eventually pick a place, plant our flag, and call it the start, ignoring the mocking call of our own hypocrisy above our heads like so many cawing crows. So I tell you that this beginning was in Minoa, knowing the lie in the truth of it. Not even a clean beginning, but the place with the footfalls of history leave fine marks to follow, a place where the prey can finally be known and named. Reading the ripples in the lake, never seeing the stone now sunk to its depths. Minoa was old, even then. It had always been old, somehow. Like a man born a doddering ancient, age seemed written in to the bones of the place. Others would make much of the strange stones in walls, or the odd carvings one could find in the lonely hills. However, for those who called themselves Minoan, they just...were. Like sheep grazing near a cathedral, in their souls they knew that the age of the place had secrets they lacked even the senses to truly know, so they accepted with a bland, indifferent pride. Even the name was old, the roots lost ages ago. Like the small, brittle stones carved with eyes one found on the beach, it just...was. Found, whole, and accepted. That is not to say all accepted. Many probed, and dug, and questioned. Minoa was always a place that seemed to encourage horizon gazing, and it seemed to echo down into the souls of some as well. They pried, and puzzled, and many found a good enough answer. Some, though, refused to plant their flag, and continued. They pushed deeper, and found hints of those who had done the same before. Like layers of sediment, they started to probe the age of the place, and found...oddness. Hints, stories, warnings, names increasingly simple, yet profound, like watching a steer somehow wither and curl back into a calf. In time, they seemed less like human names, and more simple...sounds. Its when they seemed to call for organs beyond the human voice that most turned away. If any truly found the bottom of those layered ages, if any pushed past the catacombs, the tunnels, the squat halls with carvings seemingly impossible for the human hand, none spoke of it. It was, as so much was, accepted. There was no bottom. The roots of Minoa were the navel of the world, and to press too deep would be to find oneself treading in the gardens of the gods, unbidden and unwanted. The robed themselves with “impossible” and used it to hide from the truth like children from nighttime horrors. Was it this that pushed them out, those before and after, to ply the sea and strike forth, endlessly? Was it more comfortable to brave the endless, unknown ocean than face their unknown foundations? Or was it because of it, instead of in spite of it? To constantly probe beyond, to extend the map, like a poison leeched into their souls over generations? As we have established, what you choose to believe must be good enough. There was a king. There had been many before, but there would be none after. He was not particularly good, nor evil, any more than any king. In truth, little was expected of him...but he did have one thing so few kings have: fear. Many have had fear, yes, but this fear was boundless. It was not a raving, rabid thing...but it touched everything. In time, it clustered around his own looming mediocrity. It whispered to him, mocking with the shadow of the unattainable. It made him unable to rest. It made his eyes roam, and his reach start to stretch. Unknowing, the king learned one of the few truths to be found: Fear Brings Change. ------ It was near the island that he found it. Or him, as it were. A remote spit of rock and brush, rumored to be the haunt of a by-blow of the divine, a giant of terrible power and hunger. The king was dismissive, until a few ancients whispered of the giant's true nature, and of the wonders it was rumored to hold. Treasure, glory, or the call of a vast, internal horizon, whatever the case was, the king went to the forbidden place. As he approached the cave, the carvings and raised stones made him tremble with awareness, echoing the deep, forgotten stones of forgotten ages in his own city...but much fresher. Read of cyclops, of jotun and titan rising in challenge to great lords and heroes. Lies, and their lover, Myth, are so much sweeter. The truth has so much more stammering, slipped footing, and tumbling flight...yet we must make do. He was massive, head and shoulders above any man the king had ever seen...but he was a man. Of what kind, the king could not say...he was strange, and his voice creaked like unoiled leather, yet his great weariness was easy to see. The giant began to speak, as if the king was not even an expected guest, but as someone returning to a room after stepping out for a moment. He mumbled, and rambled off, speaking to the king as if he was supposed to know much more than he did. The giant, truly, spoke at him, not with. Addressing him with all the self-reflective focus of a man pouring his thoughts to a potted plant. He spoke of the Sea People, and of what oceans they had truly sailed. His ancestors, as most would count, though of the king or the giant's, he was unclear. Of the great mountain who's worn, drowned bones would form the king's home. His voice wandered, speaking of the fog of the past and even the future with the ease of a man appraising grapes. The king felt his fear coil and shift, like a sleeping wolf hearing a lamb's bleat. The giant's cave was cluttered with madness. Objects and carvings, some beyond the king's understanding, some damnably suggestive in what he could puzzle out. The giant strode through this cave of horrible wonders with all the reverence of a stray dog wandering through a temple. In time, he finally stopped, and stooped to paw through the drifts of relics. From it, he drew a metal mass. It was nearly the size of the giant's head, and faceted like a round gemstone, though it was a tarnished, brassy metal. Along the edges of each facet ran thin grooves, and each face was scratched and carved with odd shapes. The giant rambled, telling the king this was what he sought. He said it was a gallstone of god, and when the king asked of which, the giant laughed with a icy dismissal. Take and place it, and the uppermost face would do as gods do, and make. Here, time. Here, fate, and wealth, and light, all that was could be found here. Though it could not truly make, never new things, merely stretching and twisting that which was. The kings eyes widened, thinking of life, power, safety. The giant laughed, letting it fall from his hands like a forgotten stone, and called it little more than a curse. The monument to a failed test, one life had failed before it even understood. A curse so many fought to bear. The king tried to ask, to probe, to understand, but the giant would not respond. He gestured to the orb, mumbling that it was his time, now. A poison, like madness, carried not in blood, but fate. It was the king's, now. It would always be. The giant started to walk deeper, and the king scooped up the metal thing, following...and finding the depths of his cave sprawling ever forward, warped and strange. The giant had vanished, though his mad ranting wafted through the caves and tunnels, the galleries and pits. In time, the echos seemed to twist as well, racing ahead of their source, or seeming to slither like bats around the king's head. He fled, clutching the metal mass, praying to whatever would listen to make the sounds and footsteps behind him only echos, only his own panicked feet flapping and skittering behind him. He spilled from the cave, exhausted and panting like a dog, drinking in the night sky of stars, feverishly checking to see if they were all still in their places. His fear and exhaustion dragged him into the oblivion of sleep, there hounded not by echos, but by their sources. He woke screaming, clutching the metal ball, feeling rain on his face, warm as blood. The cave was gone. Just a spray of rubble, and a notch in the stone, little bigger than a doorway. The king fled, charging the isle as a cursed place, forbidden to all, a haunt of the darkness and secrets that even the gods recoiled from. ------ Prosperity is so grand in the present, yet a footnote in the past. Tell us not of the glory, but of the fall. Not the grand, gilded halls, but what hands pried it loose as the blood of men and the screams of women soaked the streets. The king found the giant had not lied. The metal object could grow and stretch many things. Not merely that of the physical, but of the invisible as well, all seemed as simple to spool forth as the rolling of bones. He became not a king, but The King, the true King of Ages, and though the names changed, the island never knew another. Wise, powerful, wealthy, fruitful, nothing was beyond his grasp. Yet, like a garden, not all that is planted is what springs up. Despite all it could give, his fear grew in turn, and its fell children of greed, paranoia, and rage. The more he made, the more he had, the more room existed for his fear to grow. The kingdom grew, and grew. Becoming a legend, bearing the name of the eternal king at times, and others when those beyond looked upon the swelling wonders and despaired. Walls, canals, great towers, all were built, drawn from the seemingly bottomless coffers of the King. Even the roads would have been the wonder of any other place...but all paled to the great palace. It was a kingdom within the kingdom, a place where the might of the eternal King was brought to full force. Legions lived within, and many whispered that the endless depths stretched even beyond the veil of life, that the King could call audience with that which no man could truly know. Generations lived and died within, and the priests who served him soon found little reason to worship beyond him. He could stretch lives, spill forth gold, and find secrets lost before the bones of the world were laid. What else could he be, but a god given flesh? Like all budding gods, he fell to himself. It should not have happened. He should have learned...but even with his endless life, the ball always brought new wonders. New places, new things, new beings...he had grown complacent. He had started to believe his priests, that he was the master, the alpha and omega, beyond the world. Even as the strange places formed, and the beasts distorted, he always felt it was his own will, somehow, bloomed forth. His divine power, finding amusement in the world like a boy finding shapes in clouds. He knew, below his will, that the giant had not lied...but he had not told the truth. That what shape pointed to heaven would be the focus of power...but that the others were not idle. Quietly, slowly, they still worked. Like seeping water, or the creep of plague, they moved unseen, and remained even when rooted out. What cares a god for a cut on his toe...until the poison in the blood finally makes itself felt. The King was wandering, seeing what new turns of color and shape had come to his newest garden. He was alone, and watching the flutter of gem-fleshed birds as they gibbered with half-human voices, the bending stems of bleeding flowers throbbing below them. It was a sound, a laugh, and the King turned to rebuke who would dare trespass...and saw himself, sneering back at him, framed by glass trees. It was the King...but also not. They looked the same, but the King knew, for all his reflected might, this other was more. The King had gained, and twisted, and stolen as he wished...but this other, he was whole and entire. Perfected. Where he was grafted, stitched, and stretched...this other was as a perfectly cut gem. The Other smiled at him, mocking him with his reflected perfection. The King recoiled, he shouted, he wept. Never had the metal ball made something new, never had it made something whole-cloth...and nothing so perfect, so achingly flawless. The King saw himself as he could never hope to be, and being whom he was unworthy to be the shadow of. For the first time in ages, he felt the cold grip of fear once again. Even as the Other left, the King shook with fear, coiled in a ball at the base of a silver tree. That was where they found him. The Other became his shadow...or, in the depths of his terror, the King was his. He would find others smiling, or confused, wondering why he had come back so soon. Find himself congratulated for his wise rule, his find comments...in rooms he had never been, with people he had not yet met. He saw the Other walk in his halls, sit on his throne, yet none seemed to notice the change. The King began to wonder in the depth of his fear...for how long? For how long had this other usurped his rule, under the nose of all? For how long had the metal ball betrayed him. Even his priests seemed confused...and he wondered at their slyness. Was this some trick, some vile plot by those fawning advisors? The power of the gods had always rested with the priesthood...was this some attempt to replace him with some glowing copy? The fear coiled tight. He dared not rid himself of the ball, but neither could he trust it anymore. He sent forth agents of his will, to collect wise men from far shores, and bring them before the King, to wring from them some solution to this madness. His bidding was done, even as the Other continued his simulacrum rule. It seemed unaware, which suited the King all the better. The wise men came, secreted spirited into the depths of the endless palace, and there he forced their wills against the mad thing that had usurped his life, and the cursed ball that had spawned it. Some thought him mad, and for their effrontery they were introduced to some of the more horrific things the ball had spawned. One was pressed down a great vase, that narrowed endlessly at the bottom. The screams and rending of bones as he was impossibly drawn in to nothing soon silenced the doubts of many, though did little to truly banish them. In time, a proposal was made. If each facet of the metal ball had its own power, then their removal would stand to end it. The King blanched at the idea, but they soothed him by saying this would truly bring more power. Each could, when separated, be used by itself, and limit the radiant effects that seemed to source of the problem. The King then pressed, would this too end the stalking shadow of the Other? Would breaking the ball's power truly undo the thing that walked and ate and spoke in his stead? Of course, said the wise men...but it was truly fear who spoke through them, and fear will always voice whatever it is one wishes. The work began, and for a time, it was good. Slowly, each facet was cut and worked free, and each seemed to retain its power, when properly positioned. However, the core of the ball refused their attentions. It was impossibly hard, and resisted even the most exotic of attempts. The priesthood was in a fury, as well. This was a mote of the god's power, given to the world, which they sought to rend and alter. The King's rage silenced them, sending them fluttering away in terror...but fear is a quiet, slow hunter when needs must. The king rejoiced in the depths of his eternal palace, setting his facets on the much reduced orb, his own fear smothered with seemingly redoubled power. For a time, it was good. One night, wishing to test his newly rediscovered delight, he went to the ball...and his heart froze in his chest. There he stood. The Other, standing over the ball, gently gliding his fingers over the gilded settings around it that held each removed facet. He seemed at perfect ease, a smile on his lips, favoring the King with the flicker of a knowing smile. The King felt his life drain though his body, his heart stilled in an icy grip. The Other reached, and lifted the heart of the ball, tossing it gently in his hand as a boy will an interesting stone found by the road. He placed it back, heedless, and left the King's supposed sanctum of sanctums. It had not spoken, truly, the King had never heard it speak, but the message was all too clear. For all his work, it meant nothing. The ball still lived, and within it the power flowed forth. It had merely changed...but still lay beyond his ability to control. The terror coiled up and smothered the King, driving him into senseless oblivion. That was how they found him, for a time. The King's wrath was beyond understanding. It lashed like a summer storm, savage and unpredictable. His fear drew him far from the shores of reason, and anyone could become the sudden, brief source of his swelling madness. In time, though, it crystallized around a single idea: if he could not be rid of it, then he would at least control it. He would force the ball, and the Other, to kneel to his will. He would turn the power against itself, and force the Other to come, and beg his indulgence. The King had learned that, without the facets, the ball seemed...undefined. It would simply force growth. Unfocused, undirected, and could spawn true madness if not properly contained. Still...the Other. He must keep it from stealing his life as it had. Finally, he drew back his priesthood, and pressed upon them a most terrible duty. First, the palace would be prepared. Every door was to be opened, no seal or passage barred. Then, every opening to the outside was to be sealed and bricked tight, except one. All would be forced from the palace, save for the King and his priests, and then they would wait. Once the Other came, they would fall upon him. A great and terrible helm, horned and twisted, would be placed on its head, and iron nails would be driven through it, deep into the flesh and bone, fixing it forever. Then they would take it deep, deep into the belly of the place, to the chamber of the orb and its facets. There they would remain, to stand guard until their end, while the King and the remaining priests left, to seal the palace, and bury it, to build a new city atop it...save for the one door. That would remain, in the bowels of the new palace, for them to watch, and wait for the Other to return, for the ball to send its hateful avatar to beg his forgiveness. Madness, of course, but they feared to refuse him, and Fear Brings Change. It also brings opportunity. The priesthood did as the King willed...that is to say, as far as the King knew and could confirm, they followed the letter of his law. What was actually done...that was questioned in time. For a time, it was good. The Other was gone, his (relatively) modest palace building quickly, and his rule was (as far as he knew) strong. So the commoners wept at the expense and mad tyranny of the King. So he noticed gray finally creeping into his hair. So his will seemed more foggy each year...at least he was at peace. A grand, smothering peace. Too much peace, in time. There was no appeal. No voices came to the great buried door. No one knocked, begging for forgiveness...nothing. It is one thing for a king to be hated...it is far, far another to be ignored. The King pressed his priesthood to plunge the depths of the old palace, to find what had happened. The sly priests pressed subjects into service for the task, as the halls had grown strange and dangerous with the crawl of years. When subjects could not be found, then slaves would be acquired...and so it went. The King waned, and in time he, finally, fell, and with him the maze of horror and its dark inhabitants that had lead to that fall...or so the old stories went. From the wreckage came little, except gaunt, twisted men with mad glints in their eyes...and a small metal object, not much bigger than a fist. What had become of the rest, none could truly say...lost, stolen, or returned to whatever outer dark that spawned them, all the stories were true to someone. The heart, though...that was enough for them. They had learned the lesson of growth. That expansion was its own reward...and worthy of worship. ------ So then time, and the roll of ages, that march that some hate and some praise, as if either would stay its relentless roll. The priests survived, for a time. Cults rose and fell, and the heart was reshaped, presented as no more than a trifle, an object of luck, to be carried in the hope that its power would expand fortune. If you wish to hide a tree, hide it in a forest...and if none exists, plant one. Copies of the heart were spread throughout the great borrowers swelling empire...and perhaps the spirit of it bled into their souls. The great legions did spread endlessly...and even the crumbling fragments after their fall were defined by their expressionistic impulses. In time, even the memory of the empire fell, and the heart passed into other hands. Like a ship at sea, it wandered. So many did not fully understand what the heart could do, and fewer still sought to purposefully use its power. Even when it did express its endless dream of greatness, almost nobody connected the strange metal bauble and the madness it lay in. Most of its smaller works were destroyed...but some remained. In the reeking catacombs of plague and death...in the mad tombs of desert kings, and black tunnels into which the dying were thrown to complete their journey, it would lay, often unknown...until some new force drew it away. Fate, desire, or some curse, what forced hands and nature to always find and move the heart, choose whatever truth you most love. As always, it cared not. In time, the heart was found in the sodden ruins of a city of madness, and the new wise men took it, presumed to understand it, and stamped their supposed understanding with the number 184. What truth do these men and papers hold...as much as you believe them to. How much do they truly know? Do they know of the facets, and wonder at their purposes, and removal? Do they question what became of the cult of the Endless Horizon, and its other names? Do they question why all seems so distant...and why the flickering lights, such a comfort to a forgotten King, are so very far away? Perhaps...but this is a terrible danger. Trying to know, illuminates what one does not know...and a lack of knowing brings fear. And with that fear, Change. They truly fear that, more than anything else. A sterile forever is better than the chaos of otherwise. They have chosen their truth, planted their flag, and decided that there will be no other. This is the truth, for they say it is so, and it ever shall be, world without end, amen. They don't even know enough to understand their folly. Yet we must hold to something...to set our flag, and choose. We must pick our beginnings...and pray to chose our ends. However, all seek that hidden truth...there must be a way. A way to cheat the march of years, a way to slide behind the last door without opening it. The new wise men, with their numbers, and their rules, they form a cage and affect an air of detachment...like hunters pretending not to notice the rabbit, for fear of spooking the game. They hope, sometimes in spite of themselves, that one day this, or another, or something will lift them up, and show them something worthy of being called Truth. As is, was, and ever will be, the wise men play and squabble over and within an idiot god's broken dream. [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]