A profound darkness enveloped everything around Sol, so complete that he could not even see his own limbs—yet he felt them, most certainly, so they remained in their place.
He felt as though he were floating in cold water, not upon its surface but within its depths, for all was tranquil and deeply silent, and his movements were somewhat sluggish. He could not see the it, but he felt its resistance when he stirred, and a chill permeated every part of his body. It was as though he were drowning silently in a sea of darkness.
Despite his circumstances—whatever they might be—he did not grow anxious, nor question, nor cry out, nor sweat, nor fear. Neither was he pleased, nor happy, nor anticipatory, nor eager for what might come. He floated, calm and silent and still, without a single thought for his present condition. He merely perceived the cold around him.
This perception of cold was interrupted by a strange sensation of falling—as though he were being drawn down with the darkness itself, like water rushing toward a drain.
It was slow at first, then gradually faster and faster, and the darkness changed in a peculiar way: as though he could now distinguish the darkness surrounding him. It had not truly changed—it remained dark—but he had become aware of it.
Then the darkness around him shifted gradually to deep grey, and then grew lighter, little by little, as his speed increased.
He could hear the sound of rushing water, which then gave way to the howl of wind, and now he could see his limbs more clearly, for the grey had drawn nearer to white. Then a searing light appeared, forcing him to close his eyes—and when he opened them, the scene had changed.
Far below, a layer of white clouds covered everything. Above him, another layer of white clouds. He was suspended between two strata of clouds, one above and one below, with a vast distance between them.
He was falling swiftly downward at first, but then his trajectory shifted to a strange diagonal. He was heading toward a colossal mountain that pierced the lower layer of clouds like a spear thrusting into the heavens. Beside it stood several lesser peaks, smaller in both size and height.
Upon that great mountain stood an ancient and immense structure, one that inspired awe and grandeur and transcendence. It possessed pyramidal roofs—some small, some stretching long and far—with multiple courtyards paved in exquisite white marble adorned with gold and multi-hued gems of various sizes. Ornamental trees, trimmed and shaped, graced the grounds. A great white staircase coiled around the mountain, descending until it vanished into the clouds below.
The closer he drew, the greater his speed. Sol's expression did not change as his hair whipped violently in the cold wind. He was heading toward one of those roofs—a distinctive one, with a wide horizontal span and its own particular majestic form.
The young man pierced the roof as though it did not exist, as though it were merely an illusory deception. He descended within, and no sooner had he landed than white and golden bands materialized in a seemingly magical fashion, coiling about him to cover and clothe him in wide robes of white silk and golden ornaments, binding his hair with a golden cord.
This young man's features had grown more morose: his eyes had become emptier and wearier, the dark circles beneath them more pronounced, his complexion paler. He was somewhat thinner than when he had first arrived in this place, and from him radiated an aura of exhaustion and hunger for sleep. If in the other world he had resembled a lifeless corpse, here he was something far worse.
The young man showed no surprise at his present circumstances. His eyes roved about, examining the place—but not with wonder or inquiry. Rather, as though he had seen this place before. It was a grand meeting hall.
Skillfully carved columns, many of them, supported that expansive roof. There were no walls, only curtains that appeared torn. Numerous seats were arranged in rows, spaced apart, leaving a central aisle. At the center stood a brazier—resembling a great Greek fire basin—resting upon a large white marble cube inscribed with golden glyphs. The fire within was extinguished.
Some of the seats were shattered and broken, fragments scattered about as though a battle had erupted here. At the far end of the hall stood a throne of honor, raised above the other seats, more magnificent, with a high back. Upon that throne sat a figure—a shadow of absolute blackness, featureless, in human shape—sitting as immobile as a stone statue. Sol fixed his gaze upon it for a moment, then looked away.
Sol's gaze dropped downward to behold a sea of crimson blood covering the white marble floor in chaotic patterns. Then his eyes rose to the other side of the hall, where a staircase extended toward one of those great courtyards. He returned his gaze to the shadow upon the throne, then slowly advanced toward it, his feet wading through the blood upon the floor.
"Well, well, well... What have we here..."
"The Fallen Angel..."
A voice from behind interrupted him. He turned his head only halfway and spoke in a low, bleak tone:
"Luka..."
Luka was a young man who resembled him exactly in features, though his hairstyle differed. He radiated a different aura—an aura of superiority. He was healthier in appearance. He advanced with steady steps from the staircase toward one of the intact marble seats, sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and spoke in a mocking tone:
"Solivar"
"You seem to have lost control again... Has it truly been so long since the last time? Was it before you became that wretched tyrant... or when you thought to atone for your sins..."
Silence reigned for several seconds before Sól turned his head back toward the black shadow upon the throne—which sat there in majesty, like a king ruling over existence—and spoke in the same bleak tone:
"I am not guilty, that I should seek atonement. What I did was not a sin. It was my right."
Luka replied, his tone shifting to gravity.
"Not guilty?! Your right?! Do you still clutch at those hollow justifications?" These pathetic justifications?"
Silence reigned once more before Luka's expression shifted entirely to one of gravity, his tone changing likewise:
"Why are you here?! Were you not forbidden from coming to the World of Dreams? Do you think we will not punish you because you now possess the body? If that is your thinking, you had best abandon it. Your sentence—to suffer living in the waking world—stands forever. Or until the universe itself fades away. And you are forbidden from coming here..."
Sol's expression did not change, nor did he move his gaze from the black shadow. Slowly, in his morose tone, he spoke:
"I know this... Nor can I object... for I deserve this punishment for what I did here only. ... I cannot control the Flame of Vigilance... So, bear with me until... it ignites... and I shall depart again to the waking world, never to return..."
A profound silence held for several seconds before Sol's expression shifted to one of deeper sorrow. He spoke again:
"How... how fare the other brothers?"
Luka's expression changed. He rose in silence and moved toward the columns that served as a kind of balcony overlooking the exterior. He gazed outward at that sea of white clouds as though observing something, then spoke in a different tone—calmer than before:
"Those of the brothers who remain have descended the mountain... Some have scattered across the dream realme, while others chose to stay together, not to part... They hate this place now, and any place far from it suits them well..."
Sól lowered his head when he heard these words. The lines of sorrow deepened upon his face. He murmured in a low voice, so that Luka might not hear:
"They hate this place... I cannot blame them..."
He raised his head again and turned it halfway, then asked:
"And you, Luka? Do you not hate this place? Have... have you remained here all this time?"
"I hate it, truly... Though I despise this place as well... I did not wish to abandon it..."
He spoke these words in a tone of despair, then murmured under his breath: "Nor could I, even if I wished to."
Sol received his words and replied:
"Oh... Is that so... It seems... it seems you are the only one who still holds some attachment to the Mountain of Wisdom."
"Perhaps you are right... And perhaps you are not."
Luka spoke in that same despairing tone—then his eyes flew wide open, and he felt as though something were gripping his chest when he saw a change in that sea of clouds.
The distant edges of that pure white sea were churning violently like a raging ocean, transforming to a menacing grey, while the sky above shifted from blue to grey with slow deliberation. The change was advancing toward the mountain in a terrifying manner, as though the clouds had come alive and grown wrathful, resolved to rebel against the peak that pierced them.
Luka turned toward Sol, who remained crouched before the throne like a stone statue. He advanced toward him with heavy steps, speaking in a falsely calm tone, attempting to conceal his unease:
"Look—the flame has ignited."
Sol cast his gaze toward that great black brazier resting upon the white marble cube with golden inscriptions. He saw that the fire had blazed up with fierce intensity—a flame of deep purple with black edges, radiant and powerful. It had ignited in silence.
"Yes... it seems... it has indeed ignited."
He heard Luka, then received his reply—an attempt to mask his worry and tension, which was already evident upon his face. Fortunately for Luka, Sol was distracted, lost in thought, and did not notice.
"Then... then I suppose you must depart. After all... you... remain under sentence of exile..."
"Yes... you are right. I must... I must return now."
Sol gazed at the shadow upon the throne with dark and sorrowful features before turning away. He walked with slow steps toward that blazing flame. When he reached it, he raised his right hand slowly toward the fire and touched it.
From the flame issued a purple radiance with black edges, which enveloped him completely. Sol turned toward Luka and spoke:
"It... it was... good to speak with you... after all this time. And I wish... to say that... I am glad of it. Truly. And now... farewell."
Sol raised his head upward. The purple aura surrounding him intensified, and then he shot upward with lunatic speed, piercing through the roof and hurtling toward the upper layer of clouds above, disappearing as he breached them.
Luka watched him until he entered those clouds. Then his features shifted instantly to sorrow, and he murmured in a low voice:
"And I as well... my brother. I truly wish we could speak longer, but..."
Luka's head lowered. He gazed once more toward the clouds, which were slowly returning to normal after Sol's departure. Luka turned and approached the purple flame. He raised his hands slightly in the air, as though carrying something. He closed his eyes and murmured words that resembled a magical incantation.
Copper circles appeared, generating golden sparks. Slowly, they expanded and formed a great curved copper lid, inscribed with symbols above, with a circular handle. Luka grasped the handle and gazed toward the flame, saying:
"But... it is dangerous for you to remain here... with us..."
Then he placed the lid upon the flame. The symbols upon the lid moved like living serpents, slithering toward the edges and sealing them shut, emitting a deafening sound accompanied by a rush of air that sent Luka's silk robes flying.
***
The deeper Sol advanced among the clouds, the darker they grew, gradually. The sensation of cold returned to him. Then everything became black, utterly dark—and Sol opened his eyes. He was lying upon the damp, cold, dark soil
"I have... I have returned..."