Fragments Regarding Legate Trunnion Apostate 3

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++ About Sister Legate Trunnion, Led Astray

Understanding historical figures is a pilar of our shared Mekhanite heritage. Learning from their material mistakes provides us with guidence and admonition. It is a gift, to understand what we must not do as we collectively assemble WAN, what we must avoid to remain upon the blessed path. This is the truth that has formed modern Maxwelism -- the paradigm whose lack has led the other shards of the Broken Faith astray from the truth.

One of the most significant figures when it comes to understanding the initial Schism is Legate Trunnion -- the inspiration behind the Orthodox movement, an unparalelled inventor, and one of triarchs of the Broken Empire. By some understood as a traitor to Emperor Bumaro, the self-proclaimed sole builder of MEKHANE; by others seen as a paragon of self-martyrdom whose example ought to be followed. In order to critically understand the teachings we may earn from her own fate, however, we must look beyond such oversimplificationons -- we must See and Understand, in order to improve.

Thus, with all of its holy processing capabilities, the Hexagon reaches into its collective forgotten memory to extract the most accurate representation of history to share it peer-to-peer for all users of this network.

Stay safe, and proceed.

-- Aklerep <CL Operator #05>, servant of the Hexagon
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+ THE BOOK OF HEDWIG'S ENLIGHTENMENT
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A disease festers deep inside steel-bound Amoni. 

It was quiet at first, little more than a whisper shared between the uncertain faithful, a single shred of doubt in-between litanies recited before temples built to MEKHANE most holy. It was a moment's hesitation on the altars of marble writ with silver, naught but a thought that, although the guidance of divinity remains forever equitable, the future might not be what they once thought it to be.

It was but gossip broken upon the wind; the kind of news that, like with any culture built upon its own truth, would end in one or two executions and then fall forever silent, if the world were a fair place, the heresy sharing a grave with those unfortunate enough to carry it with them.

But plagued with the scar inflicted upon it by the Great War, pillared Amoni is far from just. Indeed, underneath its palaces that remain pure only by the whiteness of their walls, the disease finds a body most suited to spread its tendrils. To creep ever so deeper into the mind of the tired, the hungry, and the poor -- to tighten its grip as it whispers words of doubt into the populace. Words that soon spread like wildfire between the hushed, fearful sentences spoken before the arrival of the forces of the Emperor.

For upon his beryllium-bronze throne, Emperor Bumaro remains a fool, thinking that cutting off a hand will halt a disease that has already taken root inside his kingdom.

A disease that has already taken root inside his palace, in the Forge right beneath his feet.

He remains a fool, but he does not remain blind -- indeed, when his third, his Trunnion, his craftsmith and humble servant fails to appear for over a moon, he notices something is afoot. He has heard before whispers of her artificers, that the fire inside her workshop has started going lit, that it no longer burns with the same passion as it once did. But he has dismissed them all, for for as long as their mistress would continue to preach in a voice echoing his own, he cared little for her own battles. He knows she has always been soft, as all women are -- but now, the tool has lost its purpose. It no longer prophesizes the same truth he does.

No: sealed inside her own hermitage, she remains a burden, she remains a distraction, she remains a //problem//.

And that, for all of his false faith that the disease shall follow the other bodily faults that have plagued the Mekhanite people into an early grave, Bumaro cannot allow. For without her -- and without her followers -- his rule remains open to challenge.

Faced with no other choice, the Emperor makes his decision: to send one of his other, one of his trusted, right into the heart of the storm. To see if there is anyone still worthy of being saved amidst all that insanity; to see if he does not need to chop off the whole arm to save his decadent kingdom.

To this end, he has chosen Hedwig: his Second, and the only one with whom he can share the truth of Legate's condition, he says, lest he wishes for it to become known to all his subjects; the only one with might enough to get to Legate and set her right on the blessed path. All the others, the peasants he has already fed to the Labyrinth, they did not return -- but Hedwig will, he knows.

He does not tell her that he has chosen her only because he is fearful the disease has sprouted roots in her heart, too.

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The heart of the Empire is nothing like what she has remembered.

Once upon a time, the Workshop was a thing of beauty. She can see it still, even all those years later -- the memories of a brilliant forge raised from the ground right where their Goddess had fallen stand bright before her eyes. It was a never-ending fire that brought life into the designs of MEKHANE and spread them as far as their truth would reach. Even Hedwig, a warrior by heart, could not help but again see a certain brilliance to its lights and angles, to its god-given, man-built geometry. You didn't need to understand the doctrine of MEKHANE to truly grasp it, in a place like that --  illuminated by the very presence of divinity, you could simply stand here, gaze upon its white-hot flame of faith, and bear witness.

The Workshop has once been an altar to greatness. Now, though, it is little more than an altar to decadence.

All of its forms are twisted, lost somewhere between accident and madness. The corridors that were a golden pathway beneath the Pillars all are now malformed, rust and decay eating away at their former greatness. At strange angles its pathway bends, obstructed by //shapes//; long-abandoned mechanical vessels, almost like corpses, unkept metal facsimiles of life melting right into the structure. Like the web of a steel spider, they weave together to create a broken pathway that once led into the heart of the forge -- one that now twists and twists, deeper and deeper still.

Worst yet, the labyrinth is singing.

Its song is that of steam leaving pipes, of metal clanking against metal, of pressure raising and falling right back down. It is almost like breathing, as if its tubes and wires and plates and cables and gears are its arteries and veins, carrying their song every terrible breath the structure takes. Through each of the halls, Hedwig can dimly hear the beating of its mechanical heart, pumping pretend life into the Labyrinth with each turn of its steel ventricles, the clockworks and gears turning relentlessly into Sisyphean eternity. 

It is almost as if it is a living thing, the Workshop, almost like an organism; like a dying corpse with a rotten heart right where its mind should be; like a home without a host, a grave without a body, a soul without a God; like a mockery of decency woven with threads of heresy, with bronze tissue and steel bone; almost like--

--almost like Adytum.

The realization stops Hedwig in her tracks.

For a few seconds, she is silent, just listening to the relentless pushing and pulling of the structure around her.

Then, she begins to whisper a prayer, and marches on.

Her steps take her deeper and then deeper still, right beyond the edge of reason and towards the heart of the forge. She does not remember the layout of the workshop -- even if she did, it would not do her any good amidst what has become of it -- but she does not need to. With her eyes closed and lips moving a relentless chant, a force far greater than intuition guides her towards her destination, through the fallen hallways and burning pipes and dead ends.

It guides her like a string of light, unwavering through the twists and turns, pulling her closer and closer -- right until she reaches the scorching-hot doors leading towards the inner sanctum.

They are built from impenetrable bronze, their sturdy form already starting to melt from the heat ambient inside the structure. But the sigil etched into their middle remains readable still, the arcane runes coming together to form six fingers holding a hammer -- the seal of Saint Legate Trunnion, Smith Ultimate of MEKHANE Unparallelled. 

The symbol burns with a grey, dull light, pulsating to the rhythm of the labirynth's breath.

Carefully -- thought not without certainty that the heat will not do her harm -- Hedwig places her hand upon the sigil.

She has only seen it once in her life before, in spite of the many years she has known its creator: right when together with their third they sealed away the [[[na-bestyje-przepis-jeden-kranca-wdech|Beast of Daevon]]] beneath the crimson grave of the Matriarchs, closing its way into the world with unbreakable chains.

Its presence here can mean nothing but tragedy.

Once again, Hedwig takes a deep breath, and hopes the light of the Goddess still reaches her, this far into the terrible, silent deep.

"Legate!" she shouts, right into the symphony of steel and steam, right into the deafening agony of the movement around her, her voice echoing down the hallway. "Come, now! End this madness and open the door!"

The only response that comes through, right from the heart of the forge, is that of valves and gears continuing their work.

"Legate Trunnion!" she repeats her command, this time with a presence reserved only for rallies and battles; the kind that made men forget about their wives and children to scream in raging fervour, gathered before Hedwig the Prophet.

But Legate is not a man -- and she is not a fool. She keeps her silence.

Hedwig closes her eyes.

"SISTER TRUNNION!" her voice thunders through the structure, right into its metal bones and carbon blood; as her irises burn briefly with divine rage her words ripple with the kind of truth that does not take 'no' for an answer -- the kind that burns and murders instead of asking.

And then -- only then -- falls a sudden silence.

The hammers stop their work.

From somewhere deep inside the rotten heart, there comes a slow creak, a ragged breath, a torpid movement -- a dull spark of recognition amidst the silence. One that first blooms into anger, then into confusion, and then, at last, into //fear//.

"B-Back..." the sound whispers, and the creeks and bangs coalesce to form a rough, tormented voice -- the kind of tone reserved only for those right with Charon. For those already hearing the waters of Acheron breaking against its banks. "Hedwig," Legate says, her tone clear for but a minute, right before falling back into a lethargic decadence. The words do not come easy to her. "Turn... Turn //back//."

Hedwig moves her head closer towards the door, and closes her eyes. She drops a heavy sigh, a prayer of gratitude that her sister is still alive somewhere in-between the gesture, and considers her next words. In the back of her mind, she can already feel her chassis begin to shake ever so slightly, as if telling her the heat and pressure were growing too great even for her noble body -- even the beryllium-bronze feathers at the end of her wings were slowly but unmistakably beginning their protest.

Still: she hasn't come here for her own sake, for her own vanity.

She isn't leaving without her lost comrade.

"Sister," Hedwig says, barely louder than the steam beginning to engulf her legs. "//Please//. I beg you: open the door. I can feel your pain. Allow me to help. Allow //us// to help.

"The people are worried. The Emperor is worried. //I// am worried, sister. And I can help, if you just let me."

"B... Bumaro," the voice says, something almost like disdain present somewhere in those mechanical syllables. They might have been little more than the sound of metal breaking upon metal, but there was still some drop of terribly human sorrow behind them. "Tell him... Tell him I cannot. I cannot go back, Hedwig. I have seen it. I have seen it. It is too late. But not for you. Not for you. //Go//."

Her eight-chambered heart begins to beat faster. "What in Her name have you seen, sister? What was it?"

There is a quick, pained laugh, and somewhere a dozen pipes explode, their hiss turning almost into a cough. "Treason, Hedwig. There is treason inside the Workshop. The fire has been poisoned." More clanks in the distance, echoing a dull agony through the empty hallways. "It doesn't burn bright anymore. It glows a dull grey. It is //dead//, Hedwig."

Hedwig shakes her head. "Sister, I beg. Whatever it is, we can fight it together, like we always have. We can--"

The labyrinth laughs again. "No," it says, and then reapeats: "No. The shell is hollow, Hedwig. You cannot fill it, even if you gave purpose to the apostate anew."

"Apostate?" A sudden dagger of guilt -- of terrible recognition -- forms inside Hedwig's soul, and points right at her jugular. "Who has betrayed you, Legate? Who has done this to you?"

An awful, pregnant silence falls between the two.

Then, inevitably, the voice croaks its answer: "Me, Hedwig. I did this. All my work, the way it has always been."

Hedwig takes a step back, still praying that what she fears is not the truth -- that there is still another answer. "What have you //done//, sister?"

Somewhere in the distance, a corridor bends, but neither of them hear it. "I gazed at the fire until I saw it cold. We are all doomed, Hedwig. Doomed to oblivion. Our children are nothing but hollow. All we have built has been for naught. All we have ever done -- it has been in the name of what? Of a life with no purpose?

"We came here in pursuit of a promise -- a promise of greatness and unity. Of peace and prosperity for everyone. But what have we done? What have we done //truly//?" Its words are slow and quiet, now, barely more than a whisper. "We have crafted nothing but shells, Hedwig. There are no souls to make our children weep with joy, no beautiful minds to carry our truths into a world when we shall inevitably fall. No hearts to fill our creations with purpose. There are no hands to bring our MEKHANE to life, to be here with us." A pause. "How can we ever be anything but empty inside our steel cages, Hedwig? How can we ever?"

"Please, I //know// we can still--"

Legate's voice breaks into something more akin to laughter than a cry. "Just //look//!"

And Hedwig does look -- at the endless, lifeless corpses scattered around the workshop; at their mechanical guts, gears and bolts spilling a mockery of divinity onto a once-marble floor; at their empty eyes, the pretend-irises naught but mirrors into her own soul.

She looks, and looks, and finally notices, when her own hands reflect through the eyes of the tarnished.

And as she realizes those hands are stained with blood, at last, Hedwig //sees//.

For a split second, she is no longer the Prophet. She is again Hedwig, the Girl Who Saw, the Girl Who Heard, the Girl Who Fell And the Girl Who Rose; she is again a mirror of her own Goddess, again a vessel for the holy word revealed at the edge of life, at the edge of adrenaline rushing into her mind like fuel rushes into an engine, like rust rushing to iron. Again she is but a witness to greatness beyond this world, to a shining, terrible light piercing the veil of cognition right into her mind, her heart, her soul; again she Sees and she Hears and she Falls and -- right when the schema of her Mistress shows her how -- she Rises, and Rises, and Rises again, right through the years, right through the chants, right through--

She rises until she is standing before two more, two more just like her, two more points of light -- of absolute truth. She tries to look away but as they once more declare unity towards a single purpose the brilliance of MEKHANE most holy again crowns them Monarchs and Prophets and Warriors and Martyrs amidst a raging, howling crowd. But now, now when she looks -- now when she //sees// -- the light isn't quite right from this angle, isn't as bright and pure as it was when they first took up their truth. Now, it is cold, and its ray cuts a path directly into her destiny, unforgiving to any wants or needs -- a path that will make her grand and feared and holy and royal but a path that will lead through love and death and war and peace and Bumaro and Legate and Ion and Ridhima and Aphora and--

She tries to take a breath, to break away from the vision, but the lugs she hasn't had for over a century fill with smoke. They fill with smoke as she looks beyond the horizon, towards the burning Adytum, towards the ashen grave to children and mothers and beggars and paupers -- she looks and sees the white figure of Bumaro standing atop a city bleeding its final breath. Her own breath shutters as tears she does not feel fall to the floor around her, evaporating on impact like good will upon the altar of greatness, and she tries not to see that between all those whispered litanies Bumaro is smiling -- and she tries to turn away, to any place that isn't //this//, that isn't the inevitable terminus of their ultimate truth.

But even then, when she looks down to escape what she has helped bring forth, the blood behind the joints made to remind her of what it felt like to have nails does not wash away.

She falls to her knees, now weeping the same song as her sister behind the wall, and the light shines upon Hedwig again, slow tendrils of brilliance reaching from the heart of the Forge; it creeps towards her, to tell her this is all right, to tell her //she// is right, to tell her--

But Hedwig does not hear, for the cries of her Legate, her sister and confidant, burn ever brighter than the light that had brought them here. The light that was not //their// light, that was corrupted by their ambition, their follies, their--

The light that, Hedwig suddenly realizes, may never again be seen by mortal eyes, if they wish to preserve the truth she has first witnessed so long ago when she became unburdened by the weight of her body; the light that may never again be witnessed and felt by the flesh which craves itself more than it does others; the light that may never again be worshipped by anything but the soul and the mind, the last abodes of reason and clarity in purpose.

The soul and the mind that, just like the rest of Amoni, have already surrendered to disharmony.

She does not know how, but when she opens her eyes again, Hedwig is standing beneath an open sky, on a cliff overlooking the once-brilliant city of the pillars. She stands there, and when she sees what has become of the truth, she knows what must be done.

She takes a deep breath, and leaps forward--

--and then Rises again, towards the setting sun, her wings already taking the disease right from the depths of the Labyrinth into a new, promised dawn.

The spores of heresy fall down upon the faithful as they witness their Prophet sore beneath the scarlet sky; they fall as a movement shakes the heavens whole. 

With naught but the wind, the mandate of the Goddess is split into three.

And for the first time since the dawn of time, that which was always Broken //shatters//.

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Fragments Regarding Legate Trunnion Apostate 3

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