I find it hard to write. Right or wrong, She’s gone. We’re gone. We aren’t here. “We” isn’t here.
That thing, demon thing, little rat took away the context. My faithful fellows watched and marked me better for his theft. I had less sharp edges. I could be held in the eyes and understood.
I can feel them weighing things. The eyes of their whore god burning into them. But she was not a thing to be set so callously upon the scale cosmic.
Beginning as the thing I would always have but never take, she became what I hadn’t, and then, unknown, what I had to lose. If I let honesty take me, I could admit that I don’t know if it was her or me, or we, that died – then or now. That was rent, that opened as a door. That the dying was important, I’m certain. In her absence should be a perfect her-shaped hole, but isn’t. Can’t sort out I from we from she. Magic was hers, but now mine. Maybe ours. I feel as a cheap spectre riding a stolen frame. Even if ’twere mine to start. The sensation of her absence, a hook in my soul? Where flap the tattered remnants of two who were one, there is no perfect division of self. I am not all I should be, but where I am not, I am her. The parts that are hurt to touch, but touching them is my only strength. Magic.
East screams to be attended and the pious and wise counsel waiting. We must save the grubs of the village of history deniers, the spider-doubters. Only once we have performed this ritual will we be unbound from the constraints of their code. In the midst of this, their madness seems to pass and we break free, only to encounter… can a virus of the mind be spread through the words of an impostor? It’s garments and vestiges are of a piece with ours, it claims to be brother to us, yet whence did it come? Where does it go? After it’s brief touch, the big faith came. Self important lunatics cover’d in the glory of the sacred harlot. In place of their hearts is rot. They preach peace and leave a river of blood behind and care nothing for the tiny lives they ruin or those who’s salvation slid through their fingers like so much ash from a witch’s pyre. There was much bending and scraping. Many words uttered that sounded like hope but meant despair. They are not men, they are dogs and they will return. The world reels back from their passing and the small folk wail. Curse all who inflicted this church upon us. Fuck Thesme.
But up the mount we go, knowing doom waits still. Somehow, amidst it all, a quiet fell. Amidst the silent menace of the struggle with the Chagma: a thing of beauty. A tear in the skin of the world. Portal, passage, perilous and strange. Through it came the limb of god, finally judging them unworthy and I rejoiced. Not for us, but for them. For in that moment, despite their failure, at least they knew. “This is what it means!” For us, that day might never come. Despite the grasping outstretched hands of saints vieing endlessly for our need, none is made clear. Knowing that some is real makes what is not all the more loathsome. What I know is this: there are more worlds than these, and She holds sway in none of them. This is only the start.