Yes, I know the Path of Darkness. I know the Unlit Road. With turnoffs few and far apart; indeed, further still as the road goes on. Without the kiss of Springtime’s rebirth, without the shine of the burning Sun, there is only the death of Autumn and the freeze that Winter brings. The Decline and the Cold. Listen. Only the death of autumn and the freeze that winter brings.

Guide you there? Teach you the way? You were sent to me? “Reflection of the Eternal Night?”

Yes, I answered to that brand. Once. With a winsome smile and words of praise, the Laughing Man himself marked me so. Others have been marked, others have been shaped; I am not the only One. There were Monsters made before me, there were other Monsters made with me. The dearest, the most precious, the very rarest—those Monsters were shaped with wings. I was so shaped. Yet I am no Winged Monster. By my hands, by my strength, I tore the wings from my back.

He laughed when I chose to be flightless. When he bent and placed a gentle hand upon my crown, he touched his eyes to mine, I saw the rage and something else.

‘Go’, he said. ‘Go, if you think you can. Reflection of the Eternal Night, you discard my gifts and meet me with the gaze of Warriors. I wonder, did you borrow those defiant eyes from your fathers, long-dead in battle?’ He laughed again, and I heard the pleasure and something else.

‘Marvelous child, you may certainly leave this road; certainly if you so chose it. Only, I worry for you. I worry that you may regret that choice. The thrill of the Unlit Road, the challenge, the truth; you will find it nowhere else. Will you seek out lighter roads? I worry you see. Perhaps you thought you would become other without the gifts I gave? An entity of Light and Softness? Oh, of course you did not think so, no, such simplistic assumptions would be beneath you.’ The smile unleashed was the loveliest yet; reaching beyond his eyes, and the hand became gentler still.

‘You do know, all you were given, all that you cast aside, were means. Means to achieve greater margins. You are only less now, not other. The Unlit Road your nimble feet took to so earnestly, you will look to the Night, and you will be always reminded. But of course you knew this all.' 'Wise child that you are', he cooed, with a smile more superb than the last.

Yes, even now, I know the Unlit Road, even as I do not Run along it, I know it. I will never escort another to that Way. We few who reclaimed our freedom, we who turned from promised greatness—we will not be beckoned to that Road evermore.

We are children of the Laughing Man, we are the Grounded Monsters; we tore the wings from our backs and crushed them to powder-fine.

We chose to be grounded. We know why.

I’ve given you my soul’s verve and vitality. I’ve given you the gold of my youth. I’ve given you every dream that was mine to foster and cherish. And every ambition I dared to harbor close. I gave you tears and I gave you heart’s blood. I’ve given you everything that ever elevated me. Only you. It is always only you. I ask respite, you deny my voice. So destroy me now, continue as you are: the end is one and the same. My soul is desensitized and its cry has petered out. It doesn’t yearn for more. But it aches. Mostly there is great bleakness and emptiness—a near void. But some days, some nights, I’m aware of a dull, distant aching. I think you’d better let me go now. Let me free and I might find meaning and reason. Let me be and I might find life and purpose. Can’t you? Please?

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

There it is. I know that smell. It penetrates my stupor. It curdles my innards and stings my eyes. I know what follows that stench. And the embodiment swears to steal my wit, my will, my strength. It jeers and speaks; with the glib of snakes and rancid oil.

Doubt— I name you and I know you. Doubt, I will not turn to the people; your ploys in that regard are in vain. Doubt, I will not lie to myself—I cannot, so, your poison will not trickle in and feeble me there. Where you might have once slipped in unnoticed, cannot now be breached by the likes of you. And all other channels lead to nothing; the veins have disintegrated. Nothing is left to quicken. No paths are open for you. But Doubt, riddle me this— who do you suppose is the sorrier? You or I?

When the tears that spill from you are cold, not hot, find me, for we are brethren; and our sorrow one and the same. Come to me, I will be waiting on the Final Peak— the deep night guildes to the eyes that will see. The climb up will not be too precipitous. No, not for you. And I will be there to welcome you, to a seat at the edge. Together, we will gaze at the perfect ink below. The Final Peak: home to those whose hearts forgot the beat; whose flesh forgot the longing; whose minds forgot the hunger—the wonder.

What does one do when he is unable to grieve in the manner that is most human?
What does one do when he can never ask for what he needs?
What does one do when the private war takes greater toll than usual?
What does one do when the sights all take on monotone gray?
What does one do when the passing days all taste of ash that is cold?
What does one do when the mind and body has been considering Death as a suitor not undesirable?

What does one do when desire is dead?

Mother:

Your child has words for you. Finally, you will know the mind of the one you both feared and revered. Immediately your mind rejects my words, “Fear?” you think, “Revere?” you scorn, “Certainly not!” you righteously declare. But mother, dear mother, think upon my words with your mind unbiased, and you will see they are unflawed. Mother, there is no need to lie to your mind here. Here, I record no calumny; deceive yourself not on that account. I have given this matter much of my life thought, and finally, at long last, I know the words that I must give you.

For carrying me the decreed nine months, I thank you Mother. You have my gratitude for allowing me to borrow your womb for that time. And for aiding my release into the world, that too, I thank you for. It must have been a pain that you could have very well done without. I thank you for bearing through the trouble and inconvenience of my first years of life. I thank you for all the care you ever once bestowed— before thought became conscious and memory held.

But Mother, what of after—after thought became conscious and memory held?

Mother, dearest, dearest Mother—

You failed me. And you failed me. And you failed me again.

Much of my thoughts are spent in pensive consideration. Will you fail me too, on that day, on the one true day that brings all matters to absolute closing—will you fail me then too? I fear that you will Mother. I fear that you will. Be sure, I will look for your grace on that day. I doubt, yet I will look. Will you, my mother, let me find it?

You are tired now, you are aged—I see that and my eyes lower in accordance. I harbor no resentment be sure. I will paint no pictures with ashes from the past. I will lay down no truths that will unmake you.

I will not paint you from the viewpoint of my eyes. Never, never fear of that.

Mother.

Thank you for nothing. Thank you for everything.

Peace Mother, that is, I wish you blessed, restful peace.

My words to you, Mother— know them for truth please.

Think you that I sit content with my lot? Think you that I am joyously frolicking about, enjoying youthful indiscretions? I will say this once—clearly, heed now my words. I know no joy in life. None. Nothing. Pleasure? No, I know it not. Understand me when I say, “the feelings I have for this world, they are all but dead,” understand so that foolish notions and the subsequent foolish behavior, might know swift correction. Let not one speak to me of pain till he knows the pain others have endured. This here is the only address I will bestow upon this matter.

I had a dream once. I speak of the one dream most spend an entire lifetime coaxing and cultivating into reality; the one dream that defines a being. Yes, that dream—the dream one empties his reserve of hope upon. I had that sort of dream once. I had it, but gave it away. On a day of lies, on a day of betrayal made flesh, I gave my dream away. I gave it into the Void. That was a day of demons. On that day, my dream traveled hand-in-hand with the last of my so-called humanity. The departure of those two, I felt it—I felt it as it were a physical thing. That dream…I bled my heart for that dream. And it calls out to me, still, though I gave it in to the Void, it cries for me; it makes itself heard. It haunts, oh, it haunts.
But I—I cannot answer the call. I would—I would—I would; I would that I might weep myself to sweet, silent peace. Would.

But I stand instead. Unflinching I stand, as I ever will, on a path I chose to walk.

From their scattered corners of the world, four minds of untold virtuosity reunited to protect a common purpose. Minds of alien reasoning and logic, can nevermore have their physical bodies meet and mingle. So it had to be minds. These minds, with something akin to the speed of light, eliminated a threat posed to Innocence. The threat was a ruse, connived by one whose cunning and ambition transcended human limits. This slave of power, of ambition, remembered four extraordinary children from a distant past. These were children of an abyss; the eyes they turned upon the world were dispassionate, and hearts ever untouched. This slave of power, this one that went beyond, took his remembrance and sought to entrap. He sought to entrap a soul. This Beyonder thought to buy a soul with his inadequate threat. Perhaps time lay a haze upon memory and facts were softened to his perception. Perhaps that was the reason he stabbed at the foot of a slumbering monster, sanguinely imagining to dominate.

I am searching for you. You—discernable by the burning Sun upon your brow, and the endless ocean in your heart. I am searching for you. You— known by the coat of honesty that dyes your hands and permeates your actions; you I am searching for. You—distinguished by the Truth you clothe yourself in, for you I am searching for.

I am searching for you because—

In an age of taint and filth, noiselessly, a people cried out, begging for deliverance.

I am questing for you—the one men call Savior. I am questing, wide and far for you; the-light made- flesh. I am questing most earnestly for you—the one bleakly dismissed as beautiful fabrication.

I quest for you because—

Souls are crying. Screaming. Wailing.

Listen.