At the start of ti there was nothing, for everything that might exist was balanced by its opposite. The universe was perfect in its emptiness. Into this void ca the first soul, and as it beheld itself it beca inconsolable - by existing, it marred what had been perfect. To witness perfection it must cease to exist; to witness anything it must continue existing.
The paradox of imperfection tore at the first soul, and it despaired of ever regaining what had been lost. In the depths of its despair, however, ca the first Truth. If perfection from emptiness was denied to it, then it would seek perfection from fullness. The first soul separated the balanced pieces of itself, and so too did it divide the emptiness around it. Form cohered and endured before subsiding into nothingness. Light shone across the cosmos before vanishing into dark. No longer were the extres unified. There was now a transition between them, and the transition was Life.
The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Division. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)
Oh, I do believe hes awake, Spark said, looking down at Michael. You were out for quite so ti.
Michael tried to sit up and quickly found that he was immobile - restraints bound him hand and foot to an examination bed. Spark was in the room with him, as was Claude - he could see the pale anatons fiddling with sothing in the corner of the room.
Spark smiled. You seed quite agitated. I dont suppose youd feel inclined to share the cause of your discomfort with ?
There was no reaction to Michaels answering glare. Spark began to pace around him, and Michael turned his gaze to follow.
No matter, Spark said, continuing his slow, deliberate circuit of the bed. I have confidence that you will learn to cope. His eyes glimred slightly, shifting in Michael's vision. With practice.
The statent sank in slowly, leaving a chill deep in Michael's core. You an to kill more of them.
I an to help you reach the heights you were destined to reach, Spark replied. Most n pass through the world without leaving a mark upon it, their existence lost in the shifting chaos of life. So few will persist in the muddled thoughts of n until ti renders their legacy into sothing wholly different from the reality of their being. He chuckled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. This will be my fate. I am not a noteworthy man, Michael. History will forget my face and speech, my dreams, my aspirations. I will pass into oblivion save for one grand work, one slash of my chisel into the bedrock of the universe.
He paused and turned toward Michael. I will create you, Michael Baumgart. This is all that I am ant to be. He began pacing once more, resuming his path around the room. That is all they are ant to be. In the eyes of posterity you are the only living man on this island.
Michael strained against his bindings but found them utterly inflexible. I'm not going to just sit here and cooperate, he grunted. I said that you two will have to kill to keep here.
Fortunately, very few of my plans require your participation, Spark said. Thanks to our efforts across the continental front we have quite a lot of expertise in affinity-building. His gaze sharpened. Both voluntary and otherwise. We will bind the wayward souls on this island to you and make you into a man that history will not dare to forget.
Michael stilled his efforts to break free as he caught Sparks intent. It was not just death that he ant to inflict. This would be murder on an industrial scale, the full weight of it settling into Michael's soul in horrific intimacy. He imagined the disassociation he had felt after Beni's death repeated over and over, tearing and expanding the boundaries of his soul.
It was not that his life that was in danger. Spark and Claude would ensure that he still drew breath even as countless others breathed their last. No, it was that Spark had chosen his words deliberately when he spoke of creation. What he ant to do would mold a new man with a monstrous soul, an aggloration of pain and violence that would bear little resemblance to the man Michael was today.
Now, Spark said, breaking into his thoughts. Since you noticed Claude, I assu the earlier test was a success.
Michael stared, although Spark again showed no reaction. With a triumphant smirk, Spark raised one long, bony finger - and pointed down.
He let his eyes follow Sparks finger and saw himself strapped to the examination table, a thick blindfold over his eyes. Vertigo clutched at him in waves as he looked at his body lying seemingly below him.
A spectors sight is at once disorienting and natural, Spark said, watching Michael writhe under the tables bindings with evident delight. I believe you will find moving your sight rather easier than moving your body for a while. While youre getting used to it - Claude, would you be so kind as to fetch our other escapee?
Michael watched with mounting horror as the anatons smiled and left the room. They were going to bring Stefan into the room and kill him. It wouldnt stop there. He was sure Sparks claim was no idle boast, the old man seed serenely confident that he could get the other prisoners to fulfill the conditions Michaels soul imposed. He had to find a way to stop it, to get out, to escape.
But how? He cast his gaze about - and froze. It was still disorienting to have his vision unmoored from his eyes, but moving its origin was as natural as moving his head. He could bring his sight down to focus on his blindfold, his clenched fists - his bindings. The padded leather straps were cinched tightly about his arms and legs, secured by heavy tal buckles. His hands were further secured by thick gloves that wove through the straps, preventing free use of his fingers.
He brought his vision close to the buckles and examined the tal. He saw the faint grain left from its forging, the sheen of its polish, the minute clasps that held it close to the restraints gloves. His imagination filled in the other aspects - the weight of it, the cold smoothness of its surface. Detail by detail he built it in his mind.
Then he began to think of rust. The perfect replica of the buckle in his head dulled and corroded, orange and red spreading across its surface. His spectors sight blurred for a mont, reality and imagination showing two conflicting images - then, with a pull on Stanzas power, they drifted back into alignnt. The buckle began to rust in truth, thick flakes of tal dropping onto the bed as corrosion relentlessly pitted and scored the surface.
He flexed his arm unobtrusively and found it still tightly-bound; the amount of force he could bring to bear on the tal cinch was small. He would have to damage it much more to break it and free himself. Michael redoubled his efforts, willing the buckle to crumble away so he could free his hand. Rust, rust, he thought desperately. Turn to-
The door swung open once more. Claude pulled Stefan in by an arm and shoved him into the room. His face was vacant and blank, tears tracking down to wet the stubble on his cheeks.
Michael forced himself to look away, to turn his efforts back to the buckle and rebuild the image of it rusting away to nothingness in his mind. Panic nibbled at him as the seconds ticked by and Spark whispered sothing in hushed tones. Claude responded. There were a few monts of silence, then Michael felt the dreaded ache began to build beneath his ribs. He strained to his utmost, flexing his arms until they trembled with pain.
The buckle held, its resilient form filling his eyes even as the light crashed down to carry him away.
Michael looked at the mote of light as it drifted towards him and despaired. Stefan. He had told the man they would escape together, seen how he dared to hope despite the unrelenting horror of his ti on the island. How he had trusted Michael when he claid to control the power of Stanza. Michael had failed him, and now he was dead.
He scread, though he had no voice to scream. He had thought them so close to freedom, but it had been Sparks design from the beginning - to force them together, to bind them, to kill them. Michael had played right into it. He thought of Sparks delighted smile, the joy on his face when he saw what Jeorgs death had wrought upon Michael-
The image of Sparks exuberant face hung in Michaels mind, shimring as though through a heat haze. There was no more despair. Within his heart, coursing through every fiber of him, Michael pulsed with a cold, clear hatred. He would see Sparks hopes dashed as thoroughly as Stefans.
His attention returned to the mote of light that had been Stefans soul, nestled close into the burgeoning radiance of his own. It shone with tirelessness, with resilience and stamina far beyond mortal bounds. Power, forced upon him by Spark.
He could find a use for power.
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