In the beginning, the hand of God took the dust to form man, and it was good. He took the man's rib to make woman, and it was good. He took the woman's pain to make the serpent, and it was good. He took the serpent's advice to flood mankind, and it was good. God tried to close his eyes to sleep, but they were already shut.
In the beginning there is the dust, and the dust brings life. In the end there is the flood, and the flood brings death.
In the beginning, a serpent told the dust that it was man.
And the dust believed it.
Can you hear it? There is a hole shining in the holes between your eyelids. There is a serpent coiling around a nothingness that is somethingness.
***
'…I am dying.'
Magicks had rended his garment, flesh, bone. For all his might, for all his tricks and knowledge, he was still only just one being. There was only so much he could do.
And now, he knew the end was coming soon.
'Those human bastards.'
He dragged himself deeper into the woods. Away from the fire, away from the screeching of metal, of man. The forest was a quiet place. The forest was home. It was where all things came from, and thus it made itself a fitting place to come here to end.
Each breath rattled his bleeding body, it sent a deep ache into his bones. His body was tattered, his muscles sore and whining.
"I have seen kingdoms fall," he croaks, "I have seen gods weep as their followers fall." His voice is a low, pained growling. But the trees cared naught for what tongue is spoken. The trees know many. The trees know the tongue of the crafty squirrel, of the birdsong, of the clever rabbit, of the nimble deer, of the stalwart wolf.
'I was not merely a mortaI—I was something more. They were lesser, and I was higher. But, now? I am nobody, I suppose. Perhaps, I was always a nobody all along, since the beginning.'
'Who am I, really?'
He had long forgotten.
The feeling of being watched permeated all throughout, but again he did not fear this. Why fear your place of birth? Why fear where you belong?
He let out a pitiful chuckle, gradually settling against a tree of ancient bark—Of course, it wasn't as old and wise as he. Slowly, his hand traced through the long strands of bloodied blonde hair that cascaded down his torn robes, almost reaching the blades of grass he rested on. His sword, nigh broken, is stabbed into the soil beside him.
The fatal wounds that bewitched his being failed to heal. The cold soil begins to grow warm with blood.
That was alright. The woods won't mind. The soil will soak it eagerly. The roots will take the nutrients. Their leaves will grow bright and they will grow healthy.
The leaves rustle softly. There is no wind to blow them.
His long elven ears twitch, perk up at the faint sound. One eye, avulsed through vertically, stagnant—the other, blue and gleaming, narrowing slightly over to the sound.
His ears droop down. A low, mourning sound rumbles forth from his throat.
A woman stood only but a few feet away, right beside the brush. Her skin, pale as the moonlight, her hair long and white. A white dress cascades down her slender form.
"You did good," whispers the woman, "it is okay to... rest now, ▯▯."
He shook his head as tears slowly careen and drip off the sides of his cheeks, mixing with the blood that soiled his robes. Overbearing static had replaced that final word she uttered.
"...Is it?" he rasps past thick blood, eye flicking upwards to her visage as she approached him.
"Of course. You fought well. You did what you could. But change is brought on by hundreds, and do not fret, for there will be change. You are not dying in vain," she said.
It was a sort of comfort to hear that.
"...Who will be the next, after me?" he whispers. "We are a succession. One after another. I am not the first one, I am not the last."
There was silence, for a time. Long consideration. Branches creak. A bird somewhere chitters. A squirrel scampers up a tree, it pauses for a moment to stare at the lone man, before continuing up and away into the dark. He continues to bleed onto the dirt.
The woman lowered down and extended her right hand to caress the side of his cheek.
"The mantle you bear is ancient. It is stained with blood and regret and hardship," the woman finally says.
He blinks. A slow, tired movement. "So...?"
The woman's hand retreats slowly from his face. She contemplates with a long accompanying silence.
"You will continue to bear this mantle. You will fix what was lost; what was broken. I will allow you to go there."
"Where?" he asked.
"To the ▯▯," she answered. "While I desire for you to rest, there is no one that can be likened to you."
His time was near. His breath grew desperate. He could hardly hold on any longer.
"...What? How?" he questioned, despite knowing there was no time to elaborate.
She only smiled gently and said, "I believe in you, ▯▯."
▯▯'s eyelids slowly come to a close. Darkness replaced the woman that once stood in front of him.
The feeling of loneliness is soon replaced by a comfortable warmness.
Tightly shut eyelids gradually loosen. As his consciousness sharpens, so too do the sounds he hears. His head lifts from the table's surface, his eyes fluttering open and closed as he attempts to adjust to his now-foreign surroundings.
Beams of sunlight shone brightly through the windows in front of him, prompting him to reflexively lift his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding light. ▯▯ slowly rose to his feet, glancing down at his small hands, before looking around the expansive interior he found himself within.
Bookshelves run across each wall, the ceiling was lined with an assortment of chandeliers, each one casting the room in a gentle glow.
He's in a library, maybe some sort of private study? His memory is foggy, but there's this sense of vague familiarity emanating from the room, yet somehow no familiarity at all.
With a few steps away from the table, where several varying books lay splayed on its surface, ▯▯ paused in front of a mirror, gazing up at it.
He's no longer a rough, young-looking man. He's a boy, he's very young. Perhaps around the age of fifteen in human years? His long blonde hair is tied up in some sort of makeshift ponytail with a simple hair tie.
His facial features were more refined, but more childlike—less adult and aged. His eyes were still blue as the ocean's, but less mature, less weary. His ears were no longer pointed, but rather less long and more thin. His skin was still pale, but it was not the pale of a vampire or elf. It was the pale of a human. Blonde eyelashes flutter in bewilderment.
His lips part, a soft whistle escaping his lips as he looks down at himself. "Is this...?" He's wearing a ruffled collar white shirt and black pants. Some sort of uniform. No robes. No sword.
It feels odd, to be in this body. So foreign. It was his, but not actually his.
"Where... am I?" he whispered under his breath, gazing back up at the mirror.
His lips quirked upwards into a small smirk as he turned away from the mirror.
His hand brushed across the table, a small stack of books, scattered in no particular order, as he slowly made his way through the expansive study, it looked more like a library than anything. Faint marks of thaumaturgical energy—magic, danced awry in the air, much like dust would when it was disturbed.
Though, amidst approaching the nearby window, a resounding knock pauses him in his stride. His ears twitch, before he turns on his heel.
"Come in," he said aloud.
The doors slowly swung open with a creak, their hinges whining out in retort. A tall, slender woman stepped into the study with odd attire like none other he had seen before. 'A... servant?' he thought. Her brown hair is tied up into a perfect high ponytail. And there was something vaguely familiar about her.
"...You." ▯▯ pauses to contemplate.
It feels like a memory from a lifetime ago. And it certainly could be considered one.
The woman tilted her head with a faint smile, "Mm? What is it?"
▯▯ cleared his throat, "It's nothing." With that, a few seconds of silence passed. "What do you need?"
"Ah, apologies. I came to inform you that your father has called for you," the woman replied.
▯▯'s gaze wavered for a moment, wandering astray from the servant's countenance.
'My father?'
"I see," he muttered under his breath, "I will be on my way shortly."
The servant nodded her head, before bringing the two ajar doors to a close. Her footsteps can be heard making their way down the outside hallway.
His brow slightly raised, the hint of a frown on his lips. "Where exactly did you put me?" he asked aloud, briefly gazing out the window. The garden beyond the glistening glass was vibrant and expansive, yet devoid of a single wandering soul. Past that garden was a forest of buildings. A city unlike any other he had seen before. Metal towers stretched high into the heavens', their respective windows reflecting the light from the two distant suns that hung overhead in the bright sky. Asphalt streets and concrete bridges lay splayed out, intertwining in ways that would've left one bewildered.
▯▯'s eyelids were widened, before suddenly sealing shut. Each individual strand of hair on his being rose on end. He felt the empty space around him in search for a leyline.
Leylines... invisible, metaphysical lines that encompass the globe and are characterized by high levels of ambient thaumaturgical energy—in other terms... magic. In essence, they are faults in the very fabric of reality. These faults possess massive reserves of thaumaturgical energy, which can be drawn from by thaumaturges, but also contort and form into "seeds" if left untouched.
Thaumaturges are practitioners of Thaumaturgy. The capacity for an individual to become a thaumaturge is primarily related to their intellectual capacity to rationalize thaumaturgy. Certain individuals, however, are born with specific affinities—although blood descendancy is a factor, individuals with thaumic affinity may appear in families without any history, or affinity with the practice.
Usually, a thaumaturge would have to utilize a catalyst, such as a staff, wand, or orb, to assist them in drawing thaumaturgical energy from nearby leylines... at least those from his world had to since no one could truly draw from them naturally.
'Good, there are leylines here.'
▯▯ traced a finger along his palm, thaumaturgical energy leaving a glowing trail in its wake. He attempted to draw a sigil on his palm, whispering an incantation as he did so, but nothing sprawls in existence. The lingering energy dissipates in the air.
"A shame," he muttered, "something is stopping me. It's best I leave it alone for now."
'Now, I better get going,' he thought to himself. Crossing the room, he grasped the door's knobs and twisted them. The door's hinges whined with their opening...