I Grow Weary

I walked unseen. The darkness that engulfed my robes billowed out as I walked. Thick, tainting smoke issued from each step, marring everything it touched. In the course of my day-walks, the fresh-cut metallic lustre of the ship had been replaced by chimney-soot, softly echoing the existence of numerous spirits that I allowed to roam freely.
And I am weary of it.

I need no air. The darkness of my soul and the blackness of my spirit allowed my shell to exist without the basic needs of Life. Researching that subject from my purgatory allowed my mind to remain…objective. My withered skin hangs by shreds, yet mostly I can change my shell to suit my needs. Immortality, or a mere imitation, you decide. My intellect hangs on to dear ‘Life’ as I progress through the mockery it has become.
And I grow weary of it.

The acolytes and novices and other lowly creatures fear me. Everyone fears me, the Tomekeeper of Tarentum. I hold all knowledge that exists within Cestus. I hold all knowledge that exists within Tarentum. I hold all knowledge that is known to Us. The whispers echo about my existences. A Tomkeeper for each House, and yet he is the same. They believe I can exist everywhere, fools. Simulacra are child’s play and yet as children they fall prey to it. I used to be amused. But now…

Gravestones rumble as I pass them -“Beloved father/Beloved husband…”- now an unloved servant of mine. Crematoria swoon with the wind that billows as I approach them, leftover ashes forming wind-slaves. Toys, servants and slaves. One can try making new things each day with leftover cadavers. Modelling clay. Yet, my hands grow muddier and my eyes grow bleak as I amass a hoard from each planet of Yridia.
One last time.

Days darken as the onset of Vong continues to punish the Galaxy. The Galaxy. I remember that old time when I felt the energy of the Universe pulse through me for that tiny fraction of a picosecond. The drink drained me as much as I drained it, more passionately than I could drink a woman. How much longer have a waited for another sip of that, I know not. The remembrances of that moment separated itself from the history of the Universe and exist within the Known Universe within my brain. The Sanctuary of old is gone, replaced by three more True Keepers. Two stay there, and one serves the Clan, as always (I am led to believe). Shade and Tel’Ratha are forgotten by most, and it is only their vitae that they served me on that shattering moment remains vivid in my conscious. They said it was the seed of a Keeper. And it has multiplied within me.

I did nothing to sire another. The poor child would grow weary as I do. Two hundred and fifty nine years of existence, and I marvel at how Shade and Tel’Ratha survived boredom. They are still somewhere in this Universe, their faint beacons are suddenly made apparent when we face each other in an exact straight line. Searchlights, their eyes are. And searchlights, my eyes are.

Tarentum amasses its forces, as does every capable kingdom with a system under its control. For once, this fragmented galaxy unites against an invader. Aliens bring that tendency along with them. The fragmented Orders unite and all previous quarrels are forgotten. Kingdoms unite and all previous wars are forgotten. Yet, when will the Universe unite, when there is no alien Universe that we know of?

We prepare for battle, and grow weary.

--

The battles rage. Fury dismounts from his throne and fuses himself into the very air these mortals breathe. Their invasion is far more stronger than the previous one, and we are stronger than ever before. I cannot be certain of the time when this quell will end. Yet I can be certain that I will see it end.
‘Tis a matter of time.

--

My ‘emissaries’ are now tortured at the hands of the Vong. Synthetic screams throng their ships as I bellow out their screams without the slightest tremor. Sixteen, per large ship, and their mothership is all mine.

One fine day, I say farewell to Yridia, my home for two hundred and forty two years and take a TIE Defender. Banshee is at the controls. The cat has become quite intelligent, and very pretty too. She controls her forms, much like her master.

Soon, I look into the eyes of the mothership. The communication-webs spun inside rupture in alarm as they see the tiny fighter materialise some distance away from their gravity wells. Soon, fighters hoard my ship, and yet their weapons are useless against my veil of Darkness. They don’t see me giving them a slip and going close to their ship. They don’t see me entering their corridors. They don’t see me laughing and smirking at their ignorance.
Their leader sees my young form, standing tall before him. His emotions yield mirth, his brain processes horror, his spirit engulfs his figure.

I say that they will all die by my hand.
He laughs. They all laugh.

My minions stop their screaming. Their long dead bodies stiffen, their eyes lose their garment of brightness.
Their soldiers are annoyed, as they increase the power of their torture devices.
Nothing.

I repeat what I said, and I laugh. All seventeen years of my form, and all eras of knowledge within me gush and choke upon laughter.
The circular hall of the Vong-child’s court has a centre. I glide to it, my feet already heating up. Their warriors are motionless.

I kneel, as if in reverence to their leader, and he smiles without moving a muscle in his expressionless face. I touch the centre and I feel waves upon waves of Everything falling onto me. A black hole.
They feel it.

My minions stiffen as I smell and see them all simultaneously, and then I see the Universe and I disperse.
In the moment before my soul is destroyed, I See the entire Universe, and in one of its galaxies I see a train of ships being swallowed by themselves, by a nexus.
And within a moment, I am gone.


I wrote this up in ten minutes as a story-submission for an online Star Wars fan club that I am part of. It's a little on the vague side, I agree.
The narrator is a Necromancer, a Keeper, specifically.
That's about that.

The festival of blinding lights.

As time grows, you see novelty in mundane things. I believe that is why Deepavali is celebrated, to look for light in the strangest embers of magnesium and copper, and potassium and phosphorous.



My vantage point, was sadly not great.


This one looked like a tree bearing golden fruits. Laurelin, anyone?


A spinning tree of light that, due to the previous caption, reminds me of Telperion.


A Green and [sort of, in a colour-blinded way] Gold draconian spurt!


And suddenly, I caught sight of the Gandalf of this show!


--and his masterpiece at the end.

In a fit of the daily madness I almost forgot that today was the most
beautiful day on Fealdamar for today, 4 years back, Fealdamar was born.
Rejoice!

Of the Pujas.

At Durgapur, the Durga Puja - in a very weird "pun" - is very homely. Leaving behind the wastes that the city, that hopes to have blinding lights, is blind to was (as always) an enriching experience. None of the congestion of lovers blinded by the lights and yet marching on to parks that have ice-cream cups and jhal-muri papers strewn mercilessly around by more blind people.
No big pandals that loom over your figure with idols and encampments of justified nonsense. Money that could be used well elsewhere pours in on these monuments of colossal codswallop that all these Red Bengalis await for the entire year.
Oh sure, industrialisation is leaving the state for good - the economy of Pakistan, Kazakhstan and everywhere else is on the verge of recession, but hey! "THE DURGA PUJA IS ON! DID YOU KNOW THAT IT HAPPENS ONLY ONCE A YEAR?"
Wow. I did not know that.

Yet, in all this irritation that surfaces on my head there are a few tiny markers that catch my eye, and are invisible to everyone at this time of the year. Beautiful and minute monuments of faith that stick on you even as the entire world looks upon the mighty and monumental Durga. A wishing house that resided just in front of a small temple - people wished for success, good health, great money and offered these clay horses and elephants after the olden days.


And somehow, for me, any work of art that is not routinely destroyed in the name of ritual is a work of faith.