Liquid silk.
Smooth, as silk.
Silk.
“There,” a voice.
A flash of light.
“I thought,” gesturing wildly. “I saw...”
“No,” peaceful, calm. “You didn't.”
There is no surrender. That was the thought. The last thought. It burned, like fire, briefly. And then there was nothing. There is nothing.
“Before you can build anything, you have to tear everything down.” The voice, maimed. Maim.
Zion; bliss. A lie, “we've made our choices.”
Ghosts of blurred memories living on the edge of vision, of sight, of perception.
A sage, “Is your life real?” Asks, “Are you?”
What goal? What aim? Have you accomplished anything? Really? Stars shine and the universe expands. You go on, and you go on and on. The id asks of you, “What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?”
Exceed!
Sweating palms, shaking limbs, awake as never before. The Lord Silk.
In the dream, he moves with impossible grace. Between moments, he steps softly and with resolution. Trained by his hands and felled by same, they, the pretty lights, flash. Crimson colorful, splashing. Painting the walls. Stroke, breathe the color, stroke.
Possessions, not. He takes, naught. And everything he takes, is everything.
Ahh, the dream. Such lightness compelling him forward, onward and upward. There will be time for regret, never. These, you... he held so tight. Toys and toys and toys.
Release us, they cry. Pulsating beautiful rouge. And he will. He is.
You, Lord Silk, releasing them. It. And. All.
“Breathe,” he told himself, aloud.
Still, the abstractions flowed in abundance. Abounding.
“Focus,” he told himself, aloud.
Time and space, the fabric folding. He, you... the colors, the cries, the crimson...
“Center,” he told himself, aloud.
The figure coalesced. Is coalescing. It divides itself, splits itself in two. Division of the self, Lord Silk.
“Maim,” he told himself, aloud.
“Xion,” he told himself, aloud.
And then a question. These words, real. Spoken.
“What have you done?” Silk, his own voice broken, demanding.
Around him, piled upon mountains, no... made of... Colors? No, not colors. People? No... Bodies. He knows them, all of them, intimately. Faces, flashing, faces. Not faces.
“Masks?” Maim, he offers.
“No,” Xion moves, a perception of hand on shoulder. “Helms.”
Silk, his lips weak, croaks the word, “Brothers...”
“No,” Maim again, the dominant persona now. “Tools, constructs. All imagined. This too...”
Silk, his hands trembling, feel... something. Flat and not flat, regular in its shape and proportion. Familiar. He knows these things, he feels comfort in their touch, feels his fingers dancing, palms spreading their sweat.
Not sweat...
The crimson lights, glowing.
And heat, too. Sweltering.
“Before you can truly build anything...”
Silk, his body whole, towards Maim turns. There is an attempt there, at rejection. A struggle, maybe. Fleeting in its entirety, however, flees. It is just so easy, isn't it?
Silk, struggling to find the threads.
“We walked with you,” intoned by ghosts. “In your shoes, Lord Silk.”
“Watch,” jeering. “Watch!”
Himself, moving impossibly fast, even for him. Watching. The shaft, glowing in his hand, dances through torso, dances through barrier and obstacle of all kind. Dances. They, split... fly. They, cleaved, spray. Silk, watching himself, like art in motion. Painful, awful performance piece; can't look away. This is, he knows, him. It is. The joy in it, the release he feels was, is, continues to be his own. They, the gods of his being, play him like a puppet. He is their marionette. He loves it.
“Can this be me?” Silk, ashamed, exalted, wants.
The place becomes known, like an old book, an old something. Known. These places he see's himself in, they are real. Maybe, in some context, real. Before, if space and time exist still, (outside this place) he remembers. That him, which he remembers, wants to forget and so dives. Dives in and in to it he goes.
Swinging, spinning, slashing...
His deadly dance, ending all. Ending himself, that part of himself. Ending.
“No!”
Silk, remorseful, objecting. Objects aloud, “No!”
“I did not do,” he babbles pointlessly. “Did not want,” he bleats.
“Go back then,” the hand, the bliss. Xion, the lie. “Nothing you are doing cannot be undone.”
Zion, the ideal.
Tears streak his face as they did then, as they do now. And always will, for this.
“Who was it?” Silk begs for it, that last connection. “Of endings?”
A laugh. Laughter.
That part of him, dead. Laying dead around him, in hallways. Laying, dead.
Maim, “Rip at the scab, Silk.”
“There are other paths, I can walk.” Silk, silkily, “Can't I?”
“One day,” the discomforting one, the duality of being. “Maybe, if you want.”
“See...”
And looking, Silk saw the disc. Looming, massive, pulling.
In the galaxy there were certainly more talented warriors then Lord Silk. In the galaxy there were certainly better mystics then Lord Silk. There were better soldiers then Lord Silk and better leaders then Lord Silk, better tacticians and commanders.
Yet, none of those were present then.
When the dark Lord Silk came home.
He came home a different, changed man. His journeys had changed him, his reflections changed him. In trading with the spirits of Maim and Xion, he changed. Silk, pilgrim no more, had embraced the dark side in a way that few ever had, or ever would. Lord Silk had embraced it, fully.
There was no more indecision in his heart, no more debate. Soldier or slave, these paradigms no longer applied. He had dismissed them, had done so summarily. In doing so Silk consigned himself to a certain destiny. Silk, in accepting his fate, found a weightless freedom unlike any he had known before.
His small, stealthy skiff made easy landing with the grand warship, the Emperor. Little notice was taken in his arrival and this was by intent. The force shadowed him as it had never done before, the astral projections of Maim and Xion lending themselves to his legend.
Eventually he was noticed. Noticed by his own kind, the Crimson Brotherhood. They, glad in his return, could not see the determination hiding behind his eyes. They did not see until it was too late and by then, empowered by the will of these demigods themselves, Maim and Xion, the meaning in their demise was long lost, abandoned. Paralyzed, shocked by his sudden turn, they did not at first defend themselves and even those which eventually did, did so in vein.
These men, these loyal brothers had been trained by Silk. All they had learned, they had learned by his good grace and now, as their lessons failed them, he took everything that they were, he took it all from them and reveled in it. With every blow, with every hack and slash chop, with every graceful poke and jab, Silk felt his own energy growing.
He cut through them, endlessly it seemed.
If he considered relenting, it did not show. Not until he had cut his way clear to the helm, the ships bridge, did he pause. Not until every single brother had thrown themselves against him did he rest and then, only briefly.
Was he dismayed to discover his ship inoperable? Perhaps, but it did not show.
The voices in his head, those of Maim and Xion jabbed at him, reassured him, provoked him onward.
“You think me without recourse?” Silk had exclaimed aloud, at none present. His words, though, were felt by those he intended them for.
A great shudder moved through the Emperor and, even without engines to drive it, the massive vessel began to shift. It moved, slowly yet inexorably, forward. It twisted with agonizing slowness and, in relation to the planet below, pointed its unimaginably large ram-bow towards the pull of gravity, toward the planet.
Silk, his eyes unseeing, streamed. The blood pouring from his ears, his nose, his eyes did not obstruct his view.
His view, his last view, that looming disc drawing ever closer, ever closer.
And there, Silk grinding his teeth, splitting his gums, cracking his molars saw it, waiting.
That tower, and all that it stood for.
Xoverus, watching.
Maim, laughing.
Xion, welcoming.
And then falling. Falling.
The Crimson Emperor, kilometers of tribute, falling. The Crimson Empire, bodies bloodied and broken, falling. And Lord Silk, ending it all. Falling.
The Lord Silk, memorable for nothing save for his demise – he who split a planet in two.
Smooth, as silk.
Silk.
“There,” a voice.
A flash of light.
“I thought,” gesturing wildly. “I saw...”
“No,” peaceful, calm. “You didn't.”
There is no surrender. That was the thought. The last thought. It burned, like fire, briefly. And then there was nothing. There is nothing.
“Before you can build anything, you have to tear everything down.” The voice, maimed. Maim.
Zion; bliss. A lie, “we've made our choices.”
Ghosts of blurred memories living on the edge of vision, of sight, of perception.
A sage, “Is your life real?” Asks, “Are you?”
What goal? What aim? Have you accomplished anything? Really? Stars shine and the universe expands. You go on, and you go on and on. The id asks of you, “What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?”
Exceed!
Sweating palms, shaking limbs, awake as never before. The Lord Silk.
In the dream, he moves with impossible grace. Between moments, he steps softly and with resolution. Trained by his hands and felled by same, they, the pretty lights, flash. Crimson colorful, splashing. Painting the walls. Stroke, breathe the color, stroke.
Possessions, not. He takes, naught. And everything he takes, is everything.
Ahh, the dream. Such lightness compelling him forward, onward and upward. There will be time for regret, never. These, you... he held so tight. Toys and toys and toys.
Release us, they cry. Pulsating beautiful rouge. And he will. He is.
You, Lord Silk, releasing them. It. And. All.
“Breathe,” he told himself, aloud.
Still, the abstractions flowed in abundance. Abounding.
“Focus,” he told himself, aloud.
Time and space, the fabric folding. He, you... the colors, the cries, the crimson...
“Center,” he told himself, aloud.
The figure coalesced. Is coalescing. It divides itself, splits itself in two. Division of the self, Lord Silk.
“Maim,” he told himself, aloud.
“Xion,” he told himself, aloud.
And then a question. These words, real. Spoken.
“What have you done?” Silk, his own voice broken, demanding.
Around him, piled upon mountains, no... made of... Colors? No, not colors. People? No... Bodies. He knows them, all of them, intimately. Faces, flashing, faces. Not faces.
“Masks?” Maim, he offers.
“No,” Xion moves, a perception of hand on shoulder. “Helms.”
Silk, his lips weak, croaks the word, “Brothers...”
“No,” Maim again, the dominant persona now. “Tools, constructs. All imagined. This too...”
Silk, his hands trembling, feel... something. Flat and not flat, regular in its shape and proportion. Familiar. He knows these things, he feels comfort in their touch, feels his fingers dancing, palms spreading their sweat.
Not sweat...
The crimson lights, glowing.
And heat, too. Sweltering.
“Before you can truly build anything...”
Silk, his body whole, towards Maim turns. There is an attempt there, at rejection. A struggle, maybe. Fleeting in its entirety, however, flees. It is just so easy, isn't it?
Silk, struggling to find the threads.
“We walked with you,” intoned by ghosts. “In your shoes, Lord Silk.”
“Watch,” jeering. “Watch!”
Himself, moving impossibly fast, even for him. Watching. The shaft, glowing in his hand, dances through torso, dances through barrier and obstacle of all kind. Dances. They, split... fly. They, cleaved, spray. Silk, watching himself, like art in motion. Painful, awful performance piece; can't look away. This is, he knows, him. It is. The joy in it, the release he feels was, is, continues to be his own. They, the gods of his being, play him like a puppet. He is their marionette. He loves it.
“Can this be me?” Silk, ashamed, exalted, wants.
The place becomes known, like an old book, an old something. Known. These places he see's himself in, they are real. Maybe, in some context, real. Before, if space and time exist still, (outside this place) he remembers. That him, which he remembers, wants to forget and so dives. Dives in and in to it he goes.
Swinging, spinning, slashing...
His deadly dance, ending all. Ending himself, that part of himself. Ending.
“No!”
Silk, remorseful, objecting. Objects aloud, “No!”
“I did not do,” he babbles pointlessly. “Did not want,” he bleats.
“Go back then,” the hand, the bliss. Xion, the lie. “Nothing you are doing cannot be undone.”
Zion, the ideal.
Tears streak his face as they did then, as they do now. And always will, for this.
“Who was it?” Silk begs for it, that last connection. “Of endings?”
A laugh. Laughter.
That part of him, dead. Laying dead around him, in hallways. Laying, dead.
Maim, “Rip at the scab, Silk.”
“There are other paths, I can walk.” Silk, silkily, “Can't I?”
“One day,” the discomforting one, the duality of being. “Maybe, if you want.”
“See...”
And looking, Silk saw the disc. Looming, massive, pulling.
In the galaxy there were certainly more talented warriors then Lord Silk. In the galaxy there were certainly better mystics then Lord Silk. There were better soldiers then Lord Silk and better leaders then Lord Silk, better tacticians and commanders.
Yet, none of those were present then.
When the dark Lord Silk came home.
He came home a different, changed man. His journeys had changed him, his reflections changed him. In trading with the spirits of Maim and Xion, he changed. Silk, pilgrim no more, had embraced the dark side in a way that few ever had, or ever would. Lord Silk had embraced it, fully.
There was no more indecision in his heart, no more debate. Soldier or slave, these paradigms no longer applied. He had dismissed them, had done so summarily. In doing so Silk consigned himself to a certain destiny. Silk, in accepting his fate, found a weightless freedom unlike any he had known before.
His small, stealthy skiff made easy landing with the grand warship, the Emperor. Little notice was taken in his arrival and this was by intent. The force shadowed him as it had never done before, the astral projections of Maim and Xion lending themselves to his legend.
Eventually he was noticed. Noticed by his own kind, the Crimson Brotherhood. They, glad in his return, could not see the determination hiding behind his eyes. They did not see until it was too late and by then, empowered by the will of these demigods themselves, Maim and Xion, the meaning in their demise was long lost, abandoned. Paralyzed, shocked by his sudden turn, they did not at first defend themselves and even those which eventually did, did so in vein.
These men, these loyal brothers had been trained by Silk. All they had learned, they had learned by his good grace and now, as their lessons failed them, he took everything that they were, he took it all from them and reveled in it. With every blow, with every hack and slash chop, with every graceful poke and jab, Silk felt his own energy growing.
He cut through them, endlessly it seemed.
If he considered relenting, it did not show. Not until he had cut his way clear to the helm, the ships bridge, did he pause. Not until every single brother had thrown themselves against him did he rest and then, only briefly.
Was he dismayed to discover his ship inoperable? Perhaps, but it did not show.
The voices in his head, those of Maim and Xion jabbed at him, reassured him, provoked him onward.
“You think me without recourse?” Silk had exclaimed aloud, at none present. His words, though, were felt by those he intended them for.
A great shudder moved through the Emperor and, even without engines to drive it, the massive vessel began to shift. It moved, slowly yet inexorably, forward. It twisted with agonizing slowness and, in relation to the planet below, pointed its unimaginably large ram-bow towards the pull of gravity, toward the planet.
Silk, his eyes unseeing, streamed. The blood pouring from his ears, his nose, his eyes did not obstruct his view.
His view, his last view, that looming disc drawing ever closer, ever closer.
And there, Silk grinding his teeth, splitting his gums, cracking his molars saw it, waiting.
That tower, and all that it stood for.
Xoverus, watching.
Maim, laughing.
Xion, welcoming.
And then falling. Falling.
The Crimson Emperor, kilometers of tribute, falling. The Crimson Empire, bodies bloodied and broken, falling. And Lord Silk, ending it all. Falling.
The Lord Silk, memorable for nothing save for his demise – he who split a planet in two.