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Feb. 5th, 2012 12:03 amIt is days, it is hours, it is seconds, it is centuries. It is the end of the universe. In the grand, wide view, it is a great sponge being dessicated. The voids, great and small, and so cold, grow as the life, the heat, the moisture of the great, unmoving creature wanders away. Away from what is, what still exists, never to warm another living thing again save for the most rarest of coincidences.
And as the voids grow, what is gathers itself into great clumps and thin strands and film. Delicate, full of tension, ready to pop and tear and further unbound the great voids, isolating each little island of existence in a sea of emptiness. As that what still is gathers itself to itself, for warmth, perhaps, it only isolates itself from the warmth of the rest of the universe, immersing itself in the frigid waters. Paradoxically.
This is Time's doing.
A severe sickness washes over her and she awakens from her trance. It hasn't been hours. At least, not many. The day couldn't have come and gone either; someone would have disturbed her and the sh'elh. The sh'elh appear unperturbed. She orders the one keeping vigil over her to join the others in order to let her eyes adjust to the dark. As soon as they do she studies the stars intently to determine how much time had passed.
So, that's what that was. The time loop. Only this time it is many times more gut-wrenching a sensation than when she first stepped through the Front Door.
She calls one of the patrolling sh'elh to herself, then enters a trance once more.
In finer detail, what exists can't be seen gathering to itself. There are voids. And more voids. And more. Then things that exist. Swirling islands of brightness and of dark, more beautiful than the most precious of gems. Strings of islands, archipelagos. These were the great strings and sheets and clumps of existence that were gathering to themselves in the grand view, but in this detail the islands were drifting away from eachother. Slower than the grand voids where expanding, but still hard not to notice. In yet finer detail, these islands are not islands. They are young stars and dust, debris swirling around in eddies; they are ancient stars, swarming about an unseen hive.
So many stars in so many islands in so many archipelagos in so many clumps and threads and films of existence. And what of the voids? What can hide in the great vast void? Who would bother looking?
In a sense, all these stars are her kin. Any could be her father's brothers and sisters, or perhaps their children, or their grandchildren. Why couldn't she have been a star? Instead she was born Death.
Then she remembers. Stars. Galaxies. There are names for these things. There is no father, no mother for each individual star. There is only birth of the new, triggered by the death throes of the old and by bumps in the eddy. And by the movement of stars that no longer give light, but take matter.
Stars that are no longer stars. Black Devourers.
She takes notice of one of the galaxies full of young stars and dark dust. A galaxy that looks to be unraveling, the eddies in which the stars swirl greatly disturbed. A planet, cold and dead, races past. And there a star, ripped from what it knows and into the void, its destiny to shine its light on nothing until it can shine no more. More and more, until the disturbance is found.
A great disk of light, stars torn apart. Swirling circulating, the iris of a great eye. The pupil. The black, light consuming pupil. In it the universe reflected in horrifying detail.
"Why do you approach Sköll when you cling so tightly to your existence?"
And as the voids grow, what is gathers itself into great clumps and thin strands and film. Delicate, full of tension, ready to pop and tear and further unbound the great voids, isolating each little island of existence in a sea of emptiness. As that what still is gathers itself to itself, for warmth, perhaps, it only isolates itself from the warmth of the rest of the universe, immersing itself in the frigid waters. Paradoxically.
This is Time's doing.
A severe sickness washes over her and she awakens from her trance. It hasn't been hours. At least, not many. The day couldn't have come and gone either; someone would have disturbed her and the sh'elh. The sh'elh appear unperturbed. She orders the one keeping vigil over her to join the others in order to let her eyes adjust to the dark. As soon as they do she studies the stars intently to determine how much time had passed.
So, that's what that was. The time loop. Only this time it is many times more gut-wrenching a sensation than when she first stepped through the Front Door.
She calls one of the patrolling sh'elh to herself, then enters a trance once more.
In finer detail, what exists can't be seen gathering to itself. There are voids. And more voids. And more. Then things that exist. Swirling islands of brightness and of dark, more beautiful than the most precious of gems. Strings of islands, archipelagos. These were the great strings and sheets and clumps of existence that were gathering to themselves in the grand view, but in this detail the islands were drifting away from eachother. Slower than the grand voids where expanding, but still hard not to notice. In yet finer detail, these islands are not islands. They are young stars and dust, debris swirling around in eddies; they are ancient stars, swarming about an unseen hive.
So many stars in so many islands in so many archipelagos in so many clumps and threads and films of existence. And what of the voids? What can hide in the great vast void? Who would bother looking?
In a sense, all these stars are her kin. Any could be her father's brothers and sisters, or perhaps their children, or their grandchildren. Why couldn't she have been a star? Instead she was born Death.
Then she remembers. Stars. Galaxies. There are names for these things. There is no father, no mother for each individual star. There is only birth of the new, triggered by the death throes of the old and by bumps in the eddy. And by the movement of stars that no longer give light, but take matter.
Stars that are no longer stars. Black Devourers.
She takes notice of one of the galaxies full of young stars and dark dust. A galaxy that looks to be unraveling, the eddies in which the stars swirl greatly disturbed. A planet, cold and dead, races past. And there a star, ripped from what it knows and into the void, its destiny to shine its light on nothing until it can shine no more. More and more, until the disturbance is found.
A great disk of light, stars torn apart. Swirling circulating, the iris of a great eye. The pupil. The black, light consuming pupil. In it the universe reflected in horrifying detail.
"Why do you approach Sköll when you cling so tightly to your existence?"