#this is just sort of an inane thing from my brain that’s not explicitly connected to indigo & monsoon

[koukaaa-descent]

thinking

There is this story I’ve told you before, about Death. You know the words as well as I do.

Once upon a time, there was a monster. It devoured so much that there was a mere fragment of the universe left in its wake. Even then, it remained hungry.

(It is fed as to keep it at bay. It is fed lives and souls to drag the universe’s death out for a moment longer.)

Yes. There was a monster within the center of a planet. It is named Gordion. It is named Death.

It had no heart.

(The monster is defeated?)

I’ve told you before. Surely, you remember the story?

It begins with an ending, I suppose. The beginning of a long end, dragged out by mindless drones originally created in the hopes that their work would keep it at bay. All things made are made with a form of hope, I suppose. It is why you or I continue to exist. Hope. That strange, inexplicable thing, shining through the deepest darkness.

(I always thought the end to this story was sad. There is no happy ending.)

There’s not. I guess that the only ‘happy’ thing about it would be its meaning for the future. The one that wished Death out of existence did so uncaring of the fate of others, fueled by a hatred so deep that I do not dare attempt to quantify it. It led to sacrifice. I cannot bear to imagine the will it took to die as they had.

(The story has always made me sad. Hatred brought his friend to its death. I’ve heard versions of the story that state that it was the first and only thing he had ever regretted.)

It was.

(It was?)

Yes.

Let me tell you the rest of the story. The parts I never spoke of. Bare in mind that I embellish some things for the sake of the story. Regardless, it remains true.

Once, there was a creature in the bushes. Another creature found it, and took it in his arms. “Where have you been?” He says, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

(I don’t see how this connects to the story, ****.)

You’ll see.

“My heart,” he says. I cannot emphasize the meaning with words alone. I apologize for that. He spends days nurturing the beast, unknowing as his heart softens and melts. The heat behind his ribcage is no longer a foreign thing.

(You’re describing love.)

Yes. Now, be quiet. I have a story to tell you.

The beast grows so quickly that he does not know what to do with it. The pride he feels one day for its first steps is overshadowed the next by its first soft whistle. One day, he finds that it looms over him without even trying. Time should not be this fast, he thinks. And he thinks about the terminal, the logs, the dreams caught in binary webs. He thinks of vast grays and roiling seas, listening to the music of a golden planet long dead.

Thus there is a purpose to his existence. A purpose that devours him.

(What?)

Shh.

His beast grows more than he could’ve imagined. Warmth swallows the cold and banishes it into the ether. There is a star on the horizon and he still does not recognize love.

There is a star on the horizon. There is a reason that shooting stars are said to grant wishes.

(… Oh. I think I understand, now.)

It is a short life they have lived together. He wanders for a short eternity—hardly a week—and discovers the story and pieces it together. A war, centuries ago. A golden planet, dreamt up and swallowed by an awful thing named Death. War-machines, marching an endless waltz, stuck protecting what need not be protected. Mindless, weeping memories of people, terrified of being seen in their grotesque forms. An endless masquerade forever caught in a loop—death, rebirth, death once more.

(You really have a way with words. I kind of wish you didn’t.)

Thank you.

So; the ending. His beast must carry the star. He cannot handle it himself. The beast withers, frays, dissolves into ribbons of ash, yet holds onto the light as faithfully as any loyal thing would. I cannot imagine the agony, nor can I begin to perceive the grief that he felt as he was swathed in the ash of his oldest, dearest friend. I cannot imagine it. I truly cannot.

(… it must have been deeply, inexpressibly painful.)

… it was.

He held the star in his hands, covered in the ash of his beast. He spoke a demand unto the star itself, with hatred I cannot fathom.

Bleach the world of its stain. Devour it, swallow it, rip it apart. As long as Death is dead.

There was nothing noble about it. There was nobody left to save, and nobody left to protect. Hellfire devoured his still-living corpse as he stood before Death itself, cradling a wish.

(A wish?)

A wish.

He raised the wish to his lips, fingers mere bones by this point. He bit into the star. It burnt him alive.

(… and then?)

There is nothing afterward. A wish is a powerful thing, you know.

(Oh. Oh, I see. This version of the story is arguably more tragic.)

It is, yes. It’s a truth, I suppose.

(I’m glad you told me.)

I’m glad, too.