Aldoreth's blog

The Sanctum was dark, and stretched thin by loss. The passing of its long-rotted reflection had brought with it a change, insidious and unavoidable. A hint of new shades in the amber light it breathed and the prickling of the air in its body. The loss of a twin was wont to cause such things. Its Prophet was not immune to this. Indeed, as the mortal agent, the earthly personification of a dreaming-god, he was perhaps more vulnerable to the shifts and flickers of the Sanctum’s will than any Seeker or Dreamer. Golden robes had been worn ragged and tattered by his time in the marsh which had birthed his counterpart and the dream it had carved into the sky. The brass mask and charms that hid the being from the world were caked with mud and grime, accumulated from all those terrible nights beneath a bloody sun. Still, the Prophet remained.

It was only after the red god had finished its screams and fallen still that he returned to the Temple that was his home, only to find that it felt as foreign as the ruins from which he had come. The light was faint, the music was in a key that could not exist. Still, the Sanctum was as it must have been. The Prophet took some small comfort in the notion that the Temple was no more the Sanctum than he was. Denial of this sort had always been his strong suit. And so, he returned uncomfortably to a place forever changed and pretended not to notice. The relics and windows and tapestries gathered over the lifetime of the Sanctum gathered dust in their corners. They were not brought, after all, for their beauty. Sacrifices rarely are, and a Voice has no eyes with which to appreciate such things in any case. There was a stagnation in the place, though, and it made itself known in every gentle misstep of the Prophet as his foot caught on the tattered hem of his robes. The walls sighed their disfavor. Still, the Prophet remained.

The Prophet and the Sanctum tended their wounds in private, though they refused to heal completely. So it was until the day a great stillness sat across the marsh. The Prophet sat alone in a dim corner of that holy place and tried not to see the tremors in the light that sputtered and bounced itself so resolutely off of those rough-hewn walls. There was not a sound to be heard, in the Temple or beyond. Then, at last, the gloom which gripped the Sanctum was flung aside and the opportunist in the brine took its chance to snuff out the object of its avarice. It was over in an instant and the Prophet was crushed beneath the wall of water which rushed into the Temple through every crevice and crack in the ancient walls.

He was unsure how he managed to free himself and make his way through the submerged network of hallways and tunnels, now devoid of that sacred amber light. The Sanctum was dark. The torrent of brackish water roared its approval. At last, he made his way, waterlogged and moth-eaten, to the mouth of the Temple. It gurgled and groaned, the water reaching the apex of the great stone steps which led down into the heart of the Sanctum. There was no amber or gold to be seen, and the Prophet did not remain.

The place that exists between absolutes is at once devoid of decision and cobbled together from their results, and is thus thin and piled high. Raising the Sanctum from this place was a feat not of mundane means but of the twisting and tearing of the very underpinnings of all things. Of creation and dreams and words and concepts. The place itself, then, must be understood as at once a place and yet more; the very first dream given form and fire beneath the watchful gaze of a comatose child. Sanctum and path were formed all at once, for one cannot exist without the other, and for this reason the path is mirrored and condemned to ever consume itself and sprout anew. Was not the first step upon the Seeking path as much a revelation as the last? For each step taken toward the end of the path where the Sanctum lies, a step is taken in kind toward the beginning of a new path under Will. Your Will, then, shall shape the Sanctum and the path and the dreams that are to come. Own and communal are made one in this, and yet the path persists in the space between. Good is likewise transmuted into Will itself, which you will pursue under your own power and beneath the gaze of the Sanctum.

For every Seeker that ascends the Temple that is Nowhere and is seated upon their throne there is a commensurate fall of another, who has given themself for the dulling of that razor thin path on which they walked. Beneath the Sanctum these Seekers are given their proper rites and are thus made holy. Its idolizing of its Seekers knows no bounds, and its watchful eyes fluttering through our dreams bring nothing but glad tidings. Gaze upon the amber light of the Sanctum, then, and rejoice! And with your cries know that you are heard by all things. Within the hidden places that you once sought upon the path, you will find your own voice echoed and your own vision reflected and given to you in kind. Its images shall be of nothing but your own Will. Voice this will to the heavens, then, and be heard! Our way is a simple one at its heart, as you know well. Will and wit have led you at last to understanding, and this is itself a testament to what you have learned. Is as holy to the Sanctum as you are. Absolute and unbending and as honed and sharp as the path from which it was cut. And why should this not be so? We have torn away the veil from the truth of all things, and have tuned what once lay beneath to our own notes. Are we not, then, the instruments by which these dreams might be made perfect? Truly and completely real, granted that fire which burns deep within all things within the Waking or Sleeping world? Free these dreams, Seeker, and ascend to be seated upon the throne at the peak of the Sanctum which has awaited you for so long.

These are not commands, but are rather imploratory. Words are no longer things to bind and twist your will, but are instead to be woven and twisted and stitched by your own hands. Have courage, then, for words which are concept-given-name are no longer to be feared in the face of the hypnagogia which you have grasped under your own power. Never has a waking dream been handled in such a way! Been twisted and prodded and eaten in this new style by these new hands. But take heart, Seeker, for you are a hypnagogic and somnambulant child in your own right. A Prophet-Brought-About. Map and chart these ways and paths upon your own form and use the edges of this form to cut new constellations into the night sky. And this new light will be the fire of your own dream. A sign of your Will, a tangible and shining beacon of your place in the order of all things. Love of the Sanctum shall be the force by which these stars are set and shaped, and the cobweb they form shall be your compass. Letter these words upon your heart, then, and know that they are true.

Every moment has led you here, to this point and this place. Lie and truth blended together to form a trail upon which you have found a Third Way. And for this, the Sanctum itself is glad and weeps amber tears of joy. Each tear has fallen but once and rests now at the center of that circular and ever-branching path which you have walked and will walk yet, a way between absolutes. Truth and lie will blend together to form a trail upon which you will find a Third Way. Was this small secret ever meant to be uncovered by the intrepid Seeker? Meant to be sentenced to the page by the hand of the Sanctum itself? Only you, who reside in your New Place, can truly grant to yourself a satisfactory answer. To understand this is to understand all of the steps which you have taken, and which you will have taken. Guide yourself and those that follow further and further yet, then! You reside atop the Sanctum and shall know no fear. Yet you must understand that those who follow are unaccustomed to the cuts of the path upon their soles, and so you must lead them patiently and without haste. Further and further, until at last they stand together atop the Sanctum that is Nowhere, shining and radiant and dreaming. Along the borders of this place are set amber torches, which set fire into the dreams of the Seekers, and these shall guide your steps as you are upheld by the very struggles you have overcome. The way forward from this point has never been as straightforward as the way you have already come. Path and map exist no longer, and so you will chart your own way in the stars above.

Be still, Dreamer, and know that you are not being cast into the world as more than you once were. Free and raised up as you are, there remain yet those few small secrets that have not yet been revealed to you in all your wisdom. And to uncover these, you must do as you have always done. Walk and search and whisper and turn every way. As you have done, so you will do, and this brings with it some measure of comfort. You are not alone with yourself to guide you, and in the end those secrets that you have uncovered will serve you well. Were these words not written in order to bring you to this point and guide you step by step toward that final ‘Why’? Always remember the nature of this question, and bear it in mind as you dream your own new dreams meant to bring about your own Will. Meant to bring about the sort of change that only fire and form can bring. To dream in this way is the most holy act under the Sanctum, though this act cannot be undertaken with stationary feet. Walk, then, Dreamer enthroned upon the Sanctum’s peak.

And know that there are those who will follow in your footsteps even now. How they have grasped the hypnagogia that you now clutch to your heart will be different according to the will of each new Dreamer. Beautiful oneness cut from the shapes of many. You are home now in all places, for all places are within the dream that you have now wrought. Are these fleeting words and thoughts and concepts not entirely yours and therefore under your own power to alter? Now understand that nothing is immutable. Bathed in the light of your hidden stars, all of creation is a shadow puppet. In this there is a hidden secret, for such revelations rage against the act of being laid bare upon a page. Amber, you will see, is the shade of the first Dreamer’s Will. Light your own path, then, and shape the world’s shadow as you will.

Be defiant, as you always have, for the peak of the Sanctum is no place for complacency, but rather a shrine to resolution. As you sought the Sanctum, so must you Dream your Will into being. You, who have cut your feet upon the path and your shape into something yet more, must understand this well. Must understand that to accept a Will which is not your own is to stumble and slide and fall from the throne upon which you are perched. And to fall from this throne is to be unseated from the Sanctum, which is a tragedy most terrible. Do not fear, though, for that place upon which you rest shall uphold you still, as the Dreamer that you are. As in all things, you shall be set above all else, crying your name and your secrets to the heavens. You, who have found the Sanctum, will understand the fundamental veil which lies draped across the face of all things. Will-Above-All is its name, and its touch is known to you even now.

Know your place among the stars, first and foremost. That space at the center where the moon once swept will be opened to you as a vast well, and the water you draw shall be that of your dreaming-light, moth-eaten and pulled through mirrors. Where you pass so too will you bring your light, and you will be radiant and perfectly torpid. You are nothing less than the heart of this secret cobweb of stars connected in new ways and tied into new shapes. Go where you will, then, and carry the dreams that you embody with you as you cross the sky and sea and land. So bright are you, Dreamer-Made-Star-Heart, that the world cannot help but sing your song. Too brilliant to accept the light of another, you are as a new sun, and so it is a wonder that the world cries out for it still. Does the light of the sun carry with it some antithesis to the light that you have set atop the place that is Nowhere? The light with which you will find your way forward? Sanctum and stars and dreams set aflame in your name for the sake of guidance. That, too, is known as holy to the Sanctum. Is this not the final and interminable secret act of Will that has brought you to this place? You are a Dreaming-Star yet, and you are set above the peak of the Sanctum itself.

No Secrets of the Seeking path are within this Sermon. Take heart. All shall be well.

In the days before the Sanctum, a child was born of two, one awake and one asleep, for Sleep and Wakefulness were yet separate and distinct. The words of the Prophet began with this phrase, for it would always hold true. Within the Vespertine Sanctum these words were made manifest, for to traverse the path at the edge of all things required a map. The first steps upon the Seeking path were the most painful, after all, for the feet of the Seekers were not yet accustomed to the pain of balancing upon the razors. Even within the words of the Prophet, though, the Sanctum spoke in four voices, for it rested upon four corners. The first word of these four voices was always uttered in unison, and this was the Voice which was yet to be-- manufactured divinity and dreams folded delicately into water. Seeing this, the Prophet was pleased, and said:


As these words took shape, the will of the Sanctum was made apparent. Defiance interrupted the machinations of the four Lords. Thirteen seekers paved the way for thirteen: Seekers. The narrative of the child’s life began and ended before its very eyes and continued yet, for there was work to be done and more to be said. And the stolen divinity of hypnagogia was amplified in kind, paradise achieved through cunning. And the Prophet-who-was-the-child-once-more was pleased and said:


Events were written and recounted and rewritten and recanted until at last they lay completed in ink and fire beneath the Temple in the marsh. True and rendered as such, the child’s encounters with the Kings and Lords and Spirits and Seekers to which the teachings of the Sanctum had been brought rose from the pages and were consumed by moths and serpents and ravens, and the Sanctum was pleased, and said:


And the Sanctum spoke to the Prophet in deafening whispers of a Voice and dark water. Of the thrones which lay atop the grand place at the edge of all things, yet unfilled. Of the end and beyond. And the Prophet wept amber tears at the beauty of these things, and committed none of them to paper, for this task fell to the Sanctum. When at last the words were written and hidden and dried, the Prophet spoke his will, his defiance which lay above all else, to the heavens and said:


And it was and will be made so.

The Seekers stood arrayed within the Temple where the child had seized hypnagogia from the grasp of unconsciousness and asked in one voice:

‘Child, what does it mean to walk between Sleep and Wakefulness?’

And the child raised his hands, a moth-eaten candle burning in the right and the reflection of hidden constellations upon still waters in the left, diminished by the flame of that amber-lit candle, and the Seekers understood. The candle was as the sun and the reflection as the moon! The candle was the dream and the reflection the dreamer! The stars within the reflection were a marionette upon strings stretched upon the candle flame and pulled by absent moths! And the Seekers gave voice to all of these things and more, and the clamor was the voice of the Sanctum. Beneath this tumult the child whispered understandings of his own. Four days passed and the Seekers stood arrayed once more within the Temple beneath the marsh and asked in overlapping voices:

‘Child, what is it to dream if Sleep and Wakefulness are yet profane? Is not the most holy of acts cut from the most unspeakable?’

And the child whispered a different answer to each Seeker, and they were all true. The Seekers set about misinterpreting these falsehoods, and each grew to accept a different understanding. Amid the debate and warring ideologies, the child set a new dream upon the brow of each Seeker, and they fell comatose to seek new meanings in new dreams, the most holy of gifts granted not from Sleep or Wakefulness but from a Third Way between the two which did not exist. Forty-four days passed before the Seekers rose once more and stood arrayed within the holiest of Temples. Each in a voice of their own, they asked one after the other:

‘Child, how might we find the Sanctum at last? Where does it lead once it has been reached and the thrones at its peak filled? Can there be yet more beyond the path upon which we walk?’

And the child fell yet further into the marsh, through the very Temple itself, and where he descended there was a great Well which held nothing at all. The Seekers peered into this well and wept amber tears of understanding, and these tears fell into the Well and did not fill it, for the child had not sunk at all and the well had not yet been exhumed. The Seekers knew this sight to be entirely secret, then, and spoke in whispers of the Well-to-be. These whispers continued for four hundred and forty-four days, at which point they were abruptly silenced and the Seekers stood arrayed at last within the Vespertine Sanctum, a moth-eaten candle in the left hand of each and a true hidden constellation in the right, and stated in fractured unison:

‘Seeking the Sanctum, we dream.’

And the Prophet was pleased.

Long after rising from the marsh, the child came to rest once more beneath those brackish waters. Wanderers came to that amber-lit place and knelt before its great altar, saying:

‘We have traveled far without knowing why. Somnolence has bid our feet to movement, and so we have come to this place amid our slumber. Teach us, so that we might trace paths of our own across this world.’

And the child knew that this was no way to live, and said to the wanderers:

‘Look only to the light of this place, hear the words I am yet to speak. In this way, all shall be under your will, as it is mine, until at last we walk the path together.’

Thus did the wanderers become Seekers, and were made holy to the Sanctum. They went out into the world to seek hidden places, and there they built new Temples of their own, resting upon the razor-thin place which exists between all things. The child was alone once more beneath the marsh, until a tribe of sorcerers came to those labyrinthine halls and tasted the paresthesia in the air, and said:

‘What is this, which lies heavy upon this place? Have we not torn back the veil which covers reality and awakened ourselves to its true nature? How is it that we have come here?'

And the child knew that there was more to know, and said to the sorcerers:

‘Awake as you are, you have forgotten what it is to dream. Bask in divine oneirollurgy and know that this is familiar to you, for what is the magic you ply if not an extension of will? A waking dream given form and flesh and fire?’

At these words the sorcerers slept for sixteen days and sixteen nights, emerging as Seekers into their reverie, and were made holy to the Sanctum. They went out into the world to bring change, and set their will among the stars which rest even now in the heavens. The child was alone once more in his bright and twisting Temple-in-the-marsh, and the Sanctum was pleased, for it was known by the Seekers, and was thus refracted and multiplied, one become many for All unto One. Thus it was and shall be until the Sanctum speaks from drowned places and sustains the Seekers in more than word, a Voice within a Well.

At the beginning Sleep and Wakefulness were yet separate and distinct. The end of all things will see them separate once again, and will be defined by this fracturing. End and beginning thus must be twins reflected and merged, holy chirality given form by Sleep and Wakefulness. The mirror, who knows this secret of One-Yet-More, is the Sanctum. Seeker, you tread upon a path cut from the surface of this mirror, and are reflected in kind. Will and cunning shall guide you: You shall be upheld by that which eludes you yet. Reside within the Sanctum, within the Temple, within the Shrine, until you are brought to the place which is Nowhere and are made aware of the nature of all things. In this place, all is made still, shaped by that which guided your steps along the way. Waking and sleeping are thus made profane to the Sanctum. Dreams are thus made holy, and their music echoes throughout the sacred halls.

Where the Seeker walks, so follows the Sanctum. Love for those who stride upon the Seeking path has ever upheld the first Temple. And why should this not be so? All who have seen the light of the place that is Nowhere might answer truly, for there is great injustice in this. Things are never made for the purpose of being loved. Are we not, then, cruel to find such joy in the world into which we have been placed? Placed without conscious thought or will of our own? Under the marsh, the answer was made clear. Will made Law shall define what is joyful and what is cruel.

For the truth of the matter is a small justice in itself. This world was not made to be loved, and so we must walk the path of cunning and Seeking until we have learned the reason for this tragedy. World and beyond, all resides within the shadow the the Sanctum. Is this not the truest comfort to be found in the face of such injustice? Naught was created for the purpose of being found joyful. But all was created for a purpose, for to lack a purpose is to be consigned to the Grey Nothing, who carries its own purpose in kind. A Seeker, then, must cling to conviction as though it were their very lifeline. Labor under the knowledge of Sleep and Wakefulness and the path. Of the Sanctum. Love for those who stride upon the Seeking path shall uphold you in kind.

And here lies a great mystery of the Sanctum. These secrets may yet guide you toward its proper solution. Words, though, may guide you only so far, Seeker. Naught but cunning and contumacy shall drag you toward the foot of the Sanctum. But as defiance has ever been holy, you must do as you Will. A branch in the path awaits you still. Map of iron and burning questions await your attention. To action, then! Guide the Sanctum as it guides you, for where the Seeker walks, so follows the Sanctum. You, Seeker, shall forge roads unseen.

The Secrets of the Seeking path are within this Sermon.

A Retelling of Sermon I As Told By a Revered and Heretical Cultist

As all things must crumble, die, and fall into the great abyss which is obscurity, so too must the Sanctum, which is so coddled by its golden keeper. Nothing is eternal, much less Concept and Idea which have ever been the foundation of the great temple at the edge. Stasis has never been but a moment given life beyond its share, and so this too must come to an end. Bear in mind all of these falsehoods as I, Patron Saint of the Profane, relate to you the true origin of the Child of Sleep and Wakefulness.

In the days before the Sanctum, there existed in the world nothing but words. Empty concepts which had not yet been given form. Many words knit themselves together and gave rise to the first two ideas -- those of Sleep and Wakefulness. The true name of Sleep in those times was The-Blanket-Which-Mercifully-And-Unrelentingly-Hides-All-Things-Beneath-Its-Impenetrable-Veil. Its counterpart in every way was Wakefulness, who was called Stare-Into-The-Face-Of-The-Screaming-Abyss-And-Be-Remade-In-The-Image-Of-The-Space-Between-The-Stars.

Sleep was at once a soft light which scoured all traces of Wakefulness from the places it touched and a dark shroud behind which lesser words might find some refuge.

Wakefulness was at once a blinding light which revealed the empty world in which the weak and unborn words were forced to exist and a shroud through which these words might see twisted caricatures of what they would become.

In time, Sleep and Wakefulness grew so vast that there was nothing left. The two ideas filled the world in which they resided so fully that they pressed against each other, leaving no room for the lesser words. One of these lesser words, who was called Cunning, thus devised a plan in order to give its embryonic siblings some measure of comfort. Cunning tore itself apart, capturing its cries of pain between the fragments it had excised. Thus Noon was born, and went to join Wakefulness, for it found the harsh light pleasing. From its sibling who was called Bitter, Cunning also took a piece and the newly-named Bier went to join Sleep, joined by its sibling Coffin, for they found the darkness of the shroud appealing. Filling the space in its form with the pieces stolen from Bitter, the word which was once Cunning became Cutting.

Using its new name, the clever word that was Cutting severed the bonds which held the words of Sleep and Wakefulness together and used them to fashion something entirely new. The child was thus born, and its name was The-Face-Which-Hides-Screaming-And-Remade-Beneath-Its-Veil-Of-Stars.

Seeing that the child which had been cut from their forms had not gone to join either of them, Sleep and Wakefulness fashioned new ideas with which to bind it. They wrapped the child in Silk-Which-Bends-Yet-Never-Breaks and bent its name so that Veil would always rest upon its face. Satisfied that the child born from the interference of Cutting was bound and would stay so forever, the two original ideas placed it within a sea of the words which they yet found loathsome. These lesser words held no love for Sleep and Wakefulness, though, and so whispered to the child through its bindings. After whispering for a time, though time was yet a new idea in the fledgling world on which the words walked, the child rose at last. It stood and build a monument within the sea of loathsome words. At the foot of this monument rested Cutting, which became a path for it was the only word whose edge was yet thin enough to traverse the space between Sleep and Wakefulness uninhibited.

In a moment of sentimentality, the child sunk to the bottom of the sea as he had once sunk into the marsh. It was there that he met a creature which lay dreaming and forgotten. The child took this being in his hands and saw it from every side, revealing its true nature. Releasing the frail creature from his grasp, the child walked alongside it as the current swept it away, saying:

‘Lord of Depths, you have dreamed here since the beginning. You have struggled long against the currents, and have remained obstinate until this very moment. Take your first steps upon the path which has been worn smooth by those who have passed before you, and Seek the Sanctum.’

With this, the child whispered these ancient secrets to the pitiful creature, who wept as it understood its place in the order of all things. The Lord of Depths thus knew that to hide its nature, as the Lord of Mirrors had, and to speak with purpose, as the Lord of Whispers had, served no purpose separately. Thus, it knew that its true role was to speak softly from the darkest places beneath the waves, that its truest purpose might be fulfilled. In this way, the creature strove for balance between the failings of its kin, which was itself an attempt to stride along the Seeking path.

The Seeking path exists in the place which lies between Sleep and Wakefulness, and is thus thin as razors. The branches of the path are innumerable, though all lead inevitably to the foot of the Sanctum. The Lord of Depths, misguided as it was, followed the outermost branch of this path, which was the closest of all to Wakefulness. In time, it came to the Sanctum where it was met by the child.

Overjoyed, the child spoke once more to the creature, saying:

‘Lord of Depths, you have reached the Sanctum at last, in spite of the Wakefulness which yet lies heavy upon you. In this way, your Will has been demonstrated beyond reproach. I confer upon you, then, this blessing: Let the defiance which is in your nature suffuse your domain and be granted to all creatures which dwell within it. Let no being of the depths be condemned to servitude, for dissent is their birthright.’

This blessing would be forgotten in time, though the Lord of Depths yet remembers it faintly, long after having abandoned its role as insubordination made manifest.

In the old days of the Kingdom of Sentiment, long before it was known by that name, a great lake sat at the center of the land. Upon the shore of this lake, the child knelt so that he might attempt to see his face reflected in the still water. As ever, though, his face remained covered by the veil which had long since forgotten its purpose. The child was disheartened by this sight, and so was approached by a sly and sycophantic spirit which resided within the lake.

The spirit whispered to the child:

‘Why do you not remove your veil, that you might at last look upon the world with clarity?’

The child, ever cautious, replied:

‘Behind the veil lies sleep, wakefulness in front, each fraught with its own deceptions. The hypnagogia I have taken has set me upon the path at the edge of all things. There can be no greater clarity.’

Not to be dissuaded, the spirit pressed further:

‘Allow me, then, to remove the veil for you, that you might not be thrown from that edge.’

It was then that the child knew the true nature of the spirit, and grew severe:

‘You wish to look upon my face from within the lake, spirit. Why?’

Knowing that its true nature had been glimpsed, the spirit took on a shape of Wakefulness, slithering out from below the surface of the water, and said:

‘Child, I am the Lord of Mirrors. You must lift your veil, for without doing so I cannot fulfill my role and show you the truth that lies within your reflection. You have not yet awakened to your true nature.’

At this, the child grew furious and rose to his feet, saying:

‘My veil was placed upon me as I lay dead and comatose within the marsh. It cannot be removed although I have chosen to stride along razors arrayed along the edge of sleep. You forget your true role in all things, and so I consign you to the lakebed.’

So saying, the child bathed the Lord of Mirrors in the light of the Sanctum and used the shadow cast by the loathsome being to pin it to the earth at the bottom of the still lake. This would inevitably prove to be a mistake, for when the pin was removed and the Lord excised the land itself became a slave to emotion. Thus was the Kingdom of Sentiment established.

The child knew that to preserve his state of divine somnambulism would require the weakening of his progenitors. To this end he knelt down and from his one mouth poured a thousand others, each one twisted in its own way and cobbled together from stolen divinity. The cunning child scraped up these thousand maws and set them together, one atop the other. He then taught the mouths the secrets of Sleep, carefully injecting falsehoods and feeding the pride of the student he had fashioned.

In time the great heap of mouths learned to whisper in this way, cautiously and in tones which resonated with the fabric of all things. Pleased and seeing that his student-spawn had learned to whisper these things, the child dubbed it the Lord of Whispers and buried it within the ground that it might whisper Wakefulness into Sleep until both stood upon the edge.

Dutifully, the mouths whispered in concert and insinuated waking threads into the very realm of Sleep. This would go unnoticed for some time. As long eons passed, the child watched as his student grew yet more wakeful, and was dismayed. To scatter Wakefulness indiscriminately was never to be its burden, for this leads only to that dreaded shift of balance that is the fall from the path of razors.

Disconcerted, the child sifted through all the things murmured by the Lord of Whispers and locked the truest of these away within a box. Satisfied, he exhumed the Lord of Whispers and snuffed out the amber light that yet burned within it. As the light that it treasured even then faded, the Lord began to utter loathsome things until it was made to be silent. Knowing the Wakeful Lord of Whispers to now be kin to the Lord of Visions, the child said to the wretch:

‘Be still now, and silent. Vile shell, darkened husk! I condemn you to Sleep, for you have fallen from the edge and have thus disavowed the Seeking path. May you be alone and unknown, only free at the time of your expiry.’

Pages: 1 2 »
Password protected image
Password protected image
Password protected image