The darkness spread and filled all existence; it flowed in from all around until it stopped, reaching a state of stillness. Within this eternal night, this newfound darkness, muffled sounds emerge—screams of terror and unknown torment. One couldn't tell if it was the ink that caused their pain or something that happened prior to it... Then, a sharp motion within the darkness. A flash of light that traveled like a bolt of lightning, one that happens within the clouds but does not strike the ground beneath, it flashed in fiery red, like a streak of blood; it flashed for that one moment. There was no sound...
Then a boom that seemed to shake the very darkness around him, accompanied by screams cut short; many must have died, some never allowed to voice their terror or the pain of loss, not even the torment of their own passing. Clear screams that then become muffled by a heavenly whip that beats the discontent slaves into a form of submission. No more will their voices be heard, and no more will their pain inconvenience the existence of greater beings.
At first, it was just a strike in the dark, for what else is one act of terror if not an outlier? Is one massacre not just something that any ruler would do to uphold the rule of law of their domain? And isn't one massacre akin to a murder of necessity of a singular man? Can we not compare and outright diminish these things since they, in fact, might be done in the name of a far greater good than the existence of a man or a thousand of them?
All just numbers in the end. All life is as meaningful as an addition or a subtraction in a journal kept to account for the lives that have existed. And how does one differ from a thousand? Is that not just "a few more zeroes" at the end of the day? Surely only a ruler might know this to be the case. All life is equally meaningless. I just place myself above it.
And so, one streak of red in the dark, its flash of light, and the sound that followed it turned into a barrage, gaining frequency as the days, then months, and sooner rather than later, years went by. The cost of a revolution, one might call it. How ignorant.
Just numbers, and nothing else. Not lives worth celebrating. Not a resource to be cherished and used appropriately. Instead, a celebration of power and the ability to place an indiscriminate judgment on those who might or might not become part of the enemy.
Ones turn into thousands and, soon enough, into millions. For why stop now? Why waste the deaths of millions? Does each death not make our cause more just than before? Does it not make our revolution all the more deserving?
But at the same time, without irony and self-condemnation, one ought to ask a question: Would you not fight until the bitter end to gain such a thing as freedom and liberty?
In the 11th hour, just moments before the end, the lightning strikes; another million have died. You think it is over, but on the dot, on the 12th hour, the lightning strikes one last time—a greater boom than all of the ones that came before it.
Silence and one is left with just their mind to accompany them within what is now known as the Veil...
Just how insignificant a number is a million when compared to billions?
...
Are we really not to be blamed?
The darkness became solemn in its silence; for this one moment, those who had reached the end of their lives through an unjust execution of indiscriminate, absolute condemnation of life itself could only be confused. It all had happened too fast. The darkness had emerged, blocked away the warmth of the sun, brought cold with it, and brought death through an entrance to what one could only call perdition... just that... there are no fires unless you can remember them; there is no torture, other than not being able to escape or let go of the past...
Your memory becomes... theirs. It becomes everyone's. And not just your memory, but everyone's. There is no longer a concept of the self... There is just... us... The Veil...
- - - - -
His mind began to bend, losing all composure, beginning a dismantling of the self. A crisis of identity; a break within the seams of memory and persona. Rip my head apart; shred these thoughts of mine; blend them within your mouth, and let me become just you...
No.
The chains rattled within the black, and Kanrel found himself panting on the platform, crawling toward the figure enchained before him. He raised his blurred gaze and met the eyes of a god, and in those eyes, deep within them, he found... concern?
"Forgive me," the angel muttered, clearly unsettled, "I had no idea it would be so... visceral, even to you."
Kanrel kept panting on the floor but still found strength within and stood; he felt an ache as he did so, not caused by a physical altercation but by deep anguish experienced just moments before. It had been too much. The temple, its creation... and the millions of lives they, together, witnessed enter an eternal darkness.
"You just... stared," Kanrel muttered his accusations, not able to voice them any louder, but there was no need; he could see it within Ignar's eyes... that self-hatred, total condemnation placed toward his and his people's actions, above all the actions of the Nine Magi and Kalma.
"We thought that it would be the only way." Ignar pronounced his bitter words, spitting out the last few: "We were wrong."
"There was never a way; we never had a chance in the first place…"
"It was all just hubris. Our foolish belief that we could somehow be better than what had existed for thousands of years before us." The chains rattled as the figure tried to instinctively shake their head.
But Kanrel could, and he did, "But your actions and Kalma's actions are different. How can you truly be blamed for his actions? Did he not mention that he could have stopped you since the very beginning?"
Ignar scoffed, "So it might be... but even then, I cannot deny my part in all of this; none of us can."
"You see... if we had taken to heart the valuable lesson our god gifted us just moments before his departure, we might be closer to absolution; our sins would not be so grave."
"True power lies in restraint and foresight. This is our true failure."
"Kalma had both, but somewhere along the way, he gave up on the leash that kept him away from pointless tyranny."
"We had none since the very beginning, and even less at the end of our experiment, we called N'Sharan…" He spat, "And don't get me started on foresight…"
"Somehow, we made ourselves believe—for a long, beautiful summer—that we could defy his prophecy. That we would succeed where he had failed. That we would not become what he was."
"We were supposed to be different."
"Yet…" Ignar sighed, the chains rattled, and right before them formed a shadow of a city... It was located by the sea, with grand structures forming its skyline; with its districts that were meant to guarantee efficiency and the white walls that surrounded it from all directions, the one thing that kept the city and its millions of inhabitants safe from the dangers of the world outside and the sea that crashed against it, never able to go over it, never able to breach it.
"At first, we had created a utopia, a land where everything was taken care of. There was no such thing as worrying for your own safety or your own rights. Here, all were free and all were equal."
"But not everyone can agree at all times. Most want more than they already have. Most are greedy to some extent. It is not necessarily wrong, bad, or evil to be greedy. It only becomes so if it is at the cost of others."
"First, we allowed such thoughts; we allowed different views on how the city should be run and how we should govern."
"But when there is absolute power at your disposal, it will absolutely corrupt you. Greed will have a hold around your neck, and it will suffocate you if it doesn't get what it wants."
"We started as benevolent rulers to a free people, but ended up as tyrants who refused the right to freedom. Our city had long ago become just another tyrannical structure in its final stage of evolution. We metamorphosed, and we could understand and see what we had become after everything was already laid into ruins."
"Have you ever looked into the eyes of a murderer and wondered how much it would take for you to become like him?"
"We no longer had to think of such things. One could argue we had become the monster we were afraid of becoming long before the first stones of N'Sharan were laid on this barren earth."
"We had once been the heroes that fought against monsters who tyrannized us, who ruled over us, and to escape it, we had to defeat it; we had to deface and forget that we ever had a god…"
"But we were free, so it all must be worth it."
"We, as the strongest of our race, became the rulers of our new city; we first saw it as a city made out of wood and dirt, but under our great command, it became a city of marble and gold. We became so rich and so powerful; we were much greater than we had been a thousand years prior."
"We all knew how we got there; how we got here. Still, we became tyrants; we became like Kalma, and is he nothing less than the abyss itself? And from the very beginning, he had stared back at us, only to swallow us."
"The rise and fall of civilization is an endless cycle, as is life. Both end in tyranny, which only death can end."
"But from the ashes of a civilization, a new one will be born; and from the ashes of life, new life might be born."
"But, we had become too powerful. So we broke a cycle so eternal. After which, there was no one to rebuild, none to start anew; no ashes from which anything could rise again. There was just nothing."
"Kanrel…" Ignar whispered, "When presented with all the choices that we were given... I wonder, could you have lived through them without making the same mistakes that we did?"
"Could you have set them free? Could you have given away everything, even your life, if it meant that others may live?"
"Would you have sought a way to rectify the mistakes committed by gods?"
"Or would you have become like us? Would you have found yourself where I am now, in the form of stasis, a cycle of hell, a prison where I am locked onto a bed of my own making...? Could you live with the choices that we did and still sleep soundly?" Ignar's eyes peered deep into Kanrel's soul, once more seeing more than he should.
He felt so naked before him, so utterly exposed, that all he could do was shiver—the only answer the chained god needed.
Tears ran down Ignar's cheeks, new streaks of wetness on his dry scales. God wept and then pronounced his own guilt, "Kanrel, I have shown you only glimpses of our different domains, of things that we did before the end of our beloved N'Sharan, but now I must confess…"
"I have not been truthful since the beginning."
"I have led you astray and concealed my true identity, one that you might have guessed long ago…"
Kanrel had no words to give... How could he condemn something so minor, when before him, something far more damning had become to form and then spiral out of control and thus human understanding.
"Kanrel, I am the Angel of War and Peace... and this is my domain!" Ignar declared, his voice desperate, and within it, there remained a memory that now began to sprawl before them. Kanrel's eyes were pulled into the city formed of shadow... He could hear it all...
Despair and self-content washed over him, like a sudden downpour, soon formed into a monsoon.
He could hear!
- - - - -
The waves crashed against the walls. A gentle rhythmic sound; a clash of nature against the creations of the Sharan. Chaos and order—bound together until one breaks the other. Either the Sharan swallow the oceans, leaving vast plains of once-submarine deserts, or nature reclaims what once was hers...
There was no storm to test their endurance, not yet; nor was there a god, like Kalma, to drown the city's inhabitants just because of an inconvenience which N'Sharan might be... the seas longed to claim what once was theirs.
But what Ignar now saw was not the ocean that struck the walls on top of which he stood. What he saw was the city below... a city divided into many sections. Below him was the District of Copper, and far in the distance, in the very middle of the town, tall towers breached the skies, the tallest of them the Tower of Ivory. There was no more room for things within the walls of this great city; it was filled to the very brim with buildings and people.
Oh, N'Sharan... What have you become? Even in your last moments, you are a true beauty. Yet I shiver at the thought of you, and I wince because of your touch. You should've never become what you are... Oh, N'Sharan, the City of Slaves...
The waves hit the thick walls behind him, unable to breach or go over them. The walls were the only thing that kept the district below from drowning. A magnificent achievement of engineering, architecture, and magic. It reeked of magic, the whole city did; there was no place that had such a profound smell of waste to it. Not since Anavasii...
"Death," Ignar pronounced, his eyes still on the district below, "is death not the only thing that can bring true peace?" His voice was deep and held such immense authority, much different from what it had been when he stood before Kalma.
It was the voice of a leader whom any would follow without a moment's hesitation... if only he would ever use it in such a way. If only he had inspired his people to fight against their own corruption; if only he had been ready to lead them, again, to what would be death, so that they might once more reach freedom and peace.
He lifted his gaze from the city below and turned around. "There will be a war. One I have waited for since the building of this city. One that you believed we would never have to fight."
The Nine Magi stood upon the walls, counting him; eight of them watched only at him; they observed the Angel of War and Peace.
He looked straight at the Angel of Life and Death, his eyes peering into them; they peered into their soul. Where he could see something—a glint, a sparkle—amusement...
"My old friends, this war will come, and it will destroy this paradise we have built."
"We are no better than our old enemy, and we should never try to disrupt the cycle of empires."
"Nothing lasts forever." He declared with a smile that lingered on his tired face.
One of them scoffed, the Angel of Time, "On the contrary, friend, I have seen this end... and for hundreds of years, I have seen no other…"
"It is just you who denied it; it is just you who uselessly fought against fate." The one once known as the Oracle, accused.
The Angel of Order and Chaos shook their head. "Leave it; there is no use in arguing over something that we cannot change."
"Not the things that we did or didn't do, or the things that we could have done."
"There is no sense in arguing over an experiment that was bound for failure since the very–"
"But…" The Angel of Life and Death interjected, "I find Peace and War's choice of words to be quite... interesting…"
"A war that you awaited... and, well... death... An old enemy?"
"It reminds me of something... something I have forgotten." The Angel of Life and Death shook their head, not able to recall a long-ago forgotten memory.
The Angel of Time scoffed, "He just means the passing of time, history, and how it is inevitable that something like this would happen... Our... subjects are foolish creatures; they seek self-destruction, as does any creature that dabbles with the aspirations of creating a civilization…"
"It is just in their nature, and our dear friend is nothing more than as cynical as the rest of us…"
Ignar, the Angel of War and Peace, shook his head. They had all forgotten. How could they? Was it not something they all should be stuck on? Was it not something they all should feel guilty about? Did they not carry deep regret with them?
The Angel of Light and Dark let out a long sigh that wavered, "The deaths of billions…" They whispered, but not even one of them paid them any attention, for the Angel of Lies and Truths declared, "I remember the words of our beloved father!"
But the others just scoffed at them. "Your lies remain as funny as ever." The Angel of Judgement rolled their eyes and peered to their side, where the Angel of Joy and Suffering smiled a sadistic smile. "War? Death? The cycle of empires?" They giggled, "What are we waiting for? Let the show begin!"
As if waiting for their demands, a cascade of explosions went off all around the city. A collection of booming sounds, like the sound of drums struck just moments after each other, and as such, pillars of smoke began to rise within the city.
Ignar turned around abruptly, only to see the focal point of this grand city collapse... The Tower of Ivory fell toward the buildings across from it, smoke and rubble filled the air, and the roars of panic filled the air.
The stench of magic was in the air; the waves crashed against the walls of the city, and the Angel of Joy and Suffering jumped around in celebration, giggling away as they witnessed the last moments of the utopia they had built. The final act in this grand opera: a climax, a moment where cannons fire and celebrate the end of civilization. The Nine Magi, as the enthusiastic audience, with non-existent champagne glasses in hand, sipping away, drying tears from both laughter and sorrow, for when the curtains fall and cover all, they would be the ones sent below and behind it to congratulate the actors and sweep away the roses that cover the stage.
Ignar shook his head. He would do nothing. To reach this point, they had done too much. And so, together, they had chosen to do nothing.