Pre-Face
He receded down the steps. Closing the pores of conscience with every step he took, until it sealed shut. It would remain that way. For eternity, this day would be the beginning for all those condemned to the flames.
He walked silently with a grace that seemed effortless. He was formulating, with the pace of a meteorite, the next few steps to be taken. After all, this new conspiracy was unknown to his master (as he scorned himself for thinking of him thus) and he would like it to stay that way. If he would be banished, then let his exile, his punishment be his benediction. He would transform this sub-terrain of torture into his true home. His kingdom, he thought as his hubris over-powered his self-doubt. Others would feel what he had felt. All of Adam’s progeny would be treated to his hospitality, he thought, as his lips curled into a malignant smile.
In his wake, his contingent assembled. Those who had served as his mercenaries during the wartime were knitted closest to him, with a haughty look of arrogance about them.
But he didn’t mind this, as they had been instrumental in legendary preparation for treason and the epoch-making battle that had followed. The destinies of all the infiltrators of the new world, as had been transcribed by his master when he was but a server to Him, would be re-iterated.
“I will see to that”, he murmured, or was it just the power and mutiny of the thought that transformed into words?
His job wouldn’t be that demanding, he thought. All of mankind was after all, weak minded and undeserving of the status it had been crowned with in the new world. More and more the panegyrics written about them, more they disrupted and liquidated the harmony that had prevailed for eons. Hardly did they comprehend the intertwining labyrinth of the human mind. Neither were they competent enough to control it. He would acquire them, by the hundreds, by the thousands if they multiplied that fast. He would pollinate them with the very grain that would appeal to them most. Who had his master been kidding? The stratagem coined by him was willfully ambiguous. The people were too dogmatic to have made the distinction of right and wrong. They would have delved into the pits of sinning without acknowledging it. To such people, no punishment awaited. A calculated loophole, he thought, that wasn’t impenetrable. They needed his guidance. He would seduce them with luxury. A luxury of the senses, not of the mind. The mind would be a passive inhibitor while the senses, an enthusiastic rebellion. Thus, they would consciously indulge in sinning, and consequently flourish his lands, he thought, as another flash of that’s same grin ripped across his face. When all those who had served him in the war had assembled in front of him, he finally sat. They were in a cave. A cave that was eerie and seemed to draw warmth from absolutely nothing. It was clear that those who come here were to suffer beyond imaginable means. But it seemed as though the place itself was struggling for escape. The escape that is the most impossible to achieve and most tragic of attempts. An escape from itself. Only the occasional gleam of reflected light on the extraordinarily marred ceiling of the cave identified the massive mirror in the bosom of the cave as a lake. It seemed as if the chill inside had driven even the mere wisps of life from the lake. It was liquid ice, so confused of its state that there was a look of resigned station in it. The walls or boundaries of the cave were impossible to observe in the gloom. Either it was drowned in the overwhelming darkness or simply didn’t exist. From the lake, rose an army of miserable looking stones. The lake was vast and seemed to have no end but the stones ended a few feet below the surface indicating that they were floating on the watery ice. Though this could be a woefully inaccurate estimate. They were blunt throughout their hyper-body without glistening as wet stones do. Each of them had a groove in the center upon which the teeming million of exiled warriors sat. A look of helpless, irretrievable, Byzantine despair was etched on every face. A look only matched by others who loose in war and are subjected shattering shame and unendurable pain.
He receded down the steps. Closing the pores of conscience with every step he took, until it sealed shut. It would remain that way. For eternity, this day would be the beginning for all those condemned to the flames.
He walked silently with a grace that seemed effortless. He was formulating, with the pace of a meteorite, the next few steps to be taken. After all, this new conspiracy was unknown to his master (as he scorned himself for thinking of him thus) and he would like it to stay that way. If he would be banished, then let his exile, his punishment be his benediction. He would transform this sub-terrain of torture into his true home. His kingdom, he thought as his hubris over-powered his self-doubt. Others would feel what he had felt. All of Adam’s progeny would be treated to his hospitality, he thought, as his lips curled into a malignant smile.
In his wake, his contingent assembled. Those who had served as his mercenaries during the wartime were knitted closest to him, with a haughty look of arrogance about them.
But he didn’t mind this, as they had been instrumental in legendary preparation for treason and the epoch-making battle that had followed. The destinies of all the infiltrators of the new world, as had been transcribed by his master when he was but a server to Him, would be re-iterated.
“I will see to that”, he murmured, or was it just the power and mutiny of the thought that transformed into words?
His job wouldn’t be that demanding, he thought. All of mankind was after all, weak minded and undeserving of the status it had been crowned with in the new world. More and more the panegyrics written about them, more they disrupted and liquidated the harmony that had prevailed for eons. Hardly did they comprehend the intertwining labyrinth of the human mind. Neither were they competent enough to control it. He would acquire them, by the hundreds, by the thousands if they multiplied that fast. He would pollinate them with the very grain that would appeal to them most. Who had his master been kidding? The stratagem coined by him was willfully ambiguous. The people were too dogmatic to have made the distinction of right and wrong. They would have delved into the pits of sinning without acknowledging it. To such people, no punishment awaited. A calculated loophole, he thought, that wasn’t impenetrable. They needed his guidance. He would seduce them with luxury. A luxury of the senses, not of the mind. The mind would be a passive inhibitor while the senses, an enthusiastic rebellion. Thus, they would consciously indulge in sinning, and consequently flourish his lands, he thought, as another flash of that’s same grin ripped across his face. When all those who had served him in the war had assembled in front of him, he finally sat. They were in a cave. A cave that was eerie and seemed to draw warmth from absolutely nothing. It was clear that those who come here were to suffer beyond imaginable means. But it seemed as though the place itself was struggling for escape. The escape that is the most impossible to achieve and most tragic of attempts. An escape from itself. Only the occasional gleam of reflected light on the extraordinarily marred ceiling of the cave identified the massive mirror in the bosom of the cave as a lake. It seemed as if the chill inside had driven even the mere wisps of life from the lake. It was liquid ice, so confused of its state that there was a look of resigned station in it. The walls or boundaries of the cave were impossible to observe in the gloom. Either it was drowned in the overwhelming darkness or simply didn’t exist. From the lake, rose an army of miserable looking stones. The lake was vast and seemed to have no end but the stones ended a few feet below the surface indicating that they were floating on the watery ice. Though this could be a woefully inaccurate estimate. They were blunt throughout their hyper-body without glistening as wet stones do. Each of them had a groove in the center upon which the teeming million of exiled warriors sat. A look of helpless, irretrievable, Byzantine despair was etched on every face. A look only matched by others who loose in war and are subjected shattering shame and unendurable pain.
