[muse]: solitary, another vl fic
Dec. 8th, 2003 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coronaviridaeAnd if rain brings winds of change...
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth--and now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
There's a man who'd set himself over Videoland, Rubedo. I've watched him grow in power in the years since you died. There's a man who would be God, but a lot of men make little gods of themselves, so how is he different from any other human?
The world is moving on. The world is not the only thing that moves on. But peace is a part of death, and when we stop striving, we find our rest...unless a corn of wheat fall to the ground and die, it abideth alone...
Eschaton.
It was not an impressive or a grand place. It catered only to the simplest of tastes, barren of sentient life of its own, and thus civilization. Its only asset was its aching, empty beauty; and that did not warrant a UMN column of its own.
It was on the edge of the galaxy, a windblown moon of a gas giant that orbited a middle-aged star. Wetlands and rolling hills covered its surface; its sky was often submerged in stormclouds. A hundred and eighty standard days out of its two-hundred day year, it rained.
It also had a window on the universe. Some quirk of space and time and pure galactic caprice had settled the little moon on the lip of a wormhole-rip through time, a rippling distortion visible from its northern skies. A great vaulted rift in the sky--a cathedral ceiling that looked up into God's infinity. It was the perfect place to hide. The perfect place for silence. The perfect place to lay down one's burdens and die.
He was a wanderer. He always had been, driven by the winds of madness and caprice to explore the galaxy--and through the warps, Videoland beyond--when he was not pursuing his own goals. In his alloted time, he had fought and schemed with, killed and frightened the citizens of a hundred hundred worlds. It was a full life--if short, and blood-drenched. It was full, but not fulfilled; he had only one goal, a nameless, wordless ache that occupied a corner of his shattered mind...and he had exhausted everything he had in seeking it.
His vengeance on his brother had been denied him. He had lost the few poor souls who had called him master, the only beings who could be said truly loved him--either in the war, or by his own hand. The one person he might have called 'lover' was lost, run to some hidden corner of Videoland to avoid being used as a weapon against her own allies. Even his closest 'friend' was subsumed by her duties to the Gamemaster-God who lorded over Videoland.
And yet, Albedo Piasora was content. It wasn't any surprise that eight years of life lived like a phoenix would result in one burning down to ashes...but every moment had been worth it. Nigredo had called him tortured, had mistaken his madness for misery. But Albedo had never been truly miserable, for even in the depths of frustration and agony, he could still see the beauty and clarity of existence. It was something he, in all his lashing out at the world, could never had explained to his poor, blind brothers. He tried. He had tried. And they could not see.
So he killed them, sabotaging their home when Gameshark overran the rest of Videoland. The dying Kukai Foundation had been a fitting pyre for two of the last three living U-DO Retroviruses. For a moment, as he had watched the flames of the Foundation's death throes in the dark of space, Albedo had considered testing his own regneration against that raging pyre. Rubedo had died without realizing his crimes or repenting of his sins; the blood had not been washed of his hands, and so Albedo had sent him to hell. His vengeance was incomplete, bitter as ashes in his mouth.
But Albedo's story had not ended there. At long last, he had turned Simeon away from the flames, and gone on to better things.
He could not know it, but neither had his brothers'--they had fled in the very last moment of safety, fled to join the refugees in other parts of Videoland as their own zone crumbled around them. Once more, they fought on opposite sides of the war--but never again did they meet. Albedo's 'obligations' to Gameshark kept him chasing Gamemasters and other rebels, an immortal, unstoppable assassin in his own right. Rubedo and Nigredo had fled to one of the last safe places in Videoland--Vice City--and tried to make a life once more. They'd done it once; starting a second time wasn't nearly as hard. They still lived in constant fear of their white-haired brother.
They wouldn't much longer. Even obligations die, and Albedo had never been mastered by any native child of Videoland. He answered to only one being in all of existence--and, as he had lost the chance to tell Beatrice, with Videoland descending into nightmare and madness, he and she were...superfluous.
He had left Simeon knee-deep in one of Eschaton's glorious green fields. A storm front was sweeping in, water cascading from the sky in silent promise to wash the dust and ash of space travel off the quiescent mecha. In time, the ever-present moisture would rot away even Simeon's double-thick armor, and rust would render it incapable of spaceflight.
Albedo did not care.
He carried with him the body of the last of his Kirschwassers. Sacrificed, as they all had been, to his mad ambitions. This Realian--once all her sisters were dead, he'd kept her alive for nearly a year out of pity. She'd become more herself and less MOMO, more like a daughter to him--a companion, as he roved the universe otherwise alone. But when at last the call came, he knew she could not come with him. So he had killed her, in a final act of kindness. It was the only gift he understood how to give anymore.
He stopped at the crest of a hill, just out from under the edge of the clouds. The rift stood high overhead in the night sky, glorious and violent as the universe's birth. Albedo gazed up into that wildness, violet eyes--for once in his life--perfectly calm, perfectly intent.
"I am here."
Though the frail words could never have gotten out of Eschaton's atmosphere, to traverse all the space separating the moon from the time rift...something heard. High above Eschaton, the wave consciousness unfolded its vast wings. A shadow fell over Albedo, just as the first drops of rain began to fall on his white hair.
At last, he was home.
From here, I will make my grand exit from the stage of life--a last hurrah. As it is a part of me, so I'm a part of it; the blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. Six hundred and sixty nine of us were supposed to die on Miltia; and so I'll be the last to repay that debt. I will live on. I am not an anti-existence.
I will live long enough to see this universe spin down and die--and someday be reborn from the ashes of another. The sun was born, and so it shall die...and so it always has been, but I am the flame that cannot be extinguished. I will spread my wings over another universe yet, and you will sing beneath their shadow...
This is the God of the New Age. See it, Rubedo! See what I've bought for us!
muse
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth--and now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
There's a man who'd set himself over Videoland, Rubedo. I've watched him grow in power in the years since you died. There's a man who would be God, but a lot of men make little gods of themselves, so how is he different from any other human?
The world is moving on. The world is not the only thing that moves on. But peace is a part of death, and when we stop striving, we find our rest...unless a corn of wheat fall to the ground and die, it abideth alone...
Eschaton.
It was not an impressive or a grand place. It catered only to the simplest of tastes, barren of sentient life of its own, and thus civilization. Its only asset was its aching, empty beauty; and that did not warrant a UMN column of its own.
It was on the edge of the galaxy, a windblown moon of a gas giant that orbited a middle-aged star. Wetlands and rolling hills covered its surface; its sky was often submerged in stormclouds. A hundred and eighty standard days out of its two-hundred day year, it rained.
It also had a window on the universe. Some quirk of space and time and pure galactic caprice had settled the little moon on the lip of a wormhole-rip through time, a rippling distortion visible from its northern skies. A great vaulted rift in the sky--a cathedral ceiling that looked up into God's infinity. It was the perfect place to hide. The perfect place for silence. The perfect place to lay down one's burdens and die.
He was a wanderer. He always had been, driven by the winds of madness and caprice to explore the galaxy--and through the warps, Videoland beyond--when he was not pursuing his own goals. In his alloted time, he had fought and schemed with, killed and frightened the citizens of a hundred hundred worlds. It was a full life--if short, and blood-drenched. It was full, but not fulfilled; he had only one goal, a nameless, wordless ache that occupied a corner of his shattered mind...and he had exhausted everything he had in seeking it.
His vengeance on his brother had been denied him. He had lost the few poor souls who had called him master, the only beings who could be said truly loved him--either in the war, or by his own hand. The one person he might have called 'lover' was lost, run to some hidden corner of Videoland to avoid being used as a weapon against her own allies. Even his closest 'friend' was subsumed by her duties to the Gamemaster-God who lorded over Videoland.
And yet, Albedo Piasora was content. It wasn't any surprise that eight years of life lived like a phoenix would result in one burning down to ashes...but every moment had been worth it. Nigredo had called him tortured, had mistaken his madness for misery. But Albedo had never been truly miserable, for even in the depths of frustration and agony, he could still see the beauty and clarity of existence. It was something he, in all his lashing out at the world, could never had explained to his poor, blind brothers. He tried. He had tried. And they could not see.
So he killed them, sabotaging their home when Gameshark overran the rest of Videoland. The dying Kukai Foundation had been a fitting pyre for two of the last three living U-DO Retroviruses. For a moment, as he had watched the flames of the Foundation's death throes in the dark of space, Albedo had considered testing his own regneration against that raging pyre. Rubedo had died without realizing his crimes or repenting of his sins; the blood had not been washed of his hands, and so Albedo had sent him to hell. His vengeance was incomplete, bitter as ashes in his mouth.
But Albedo's story had not ended there. At long last, he had turned Simeon away from the flames, and gone on to better things.
He could not know it, but neither had his brothers'--they had fled in the very last moment of safety, fled to join the refugees in other parts of Videoland as their own zone crumbled around them. Once more, they fought on opposite sides of the war--but never again did they meet. Albedo's 'obligations' to Gameshark kept him chasing Gamemasters and other rebels, an immortal, unstoppable assassin in his own right. Rubedo and Nigredo had fled to one of the last safe places in Videoland--Vice City--and tried to make a life once more. They'd done it once; starting a second time wasn't nearly as hard. They still lived in constant fear of their white-haired brother.
They wouldn't much longer. Even obligations die, and Albedo had never been mastered by any native child of Videoland. He answered to only one being in all of existence--and, as he had lost the chance to tell Beatrice, with Videoland descending into nightmare and madness, he and she were...superfluous.
He had left Simeon knee-deep in one of Eschaton's glorious green fields. A storm front was sweeping in, water cascading from the sky in silent promise to wash the dust and ash of space travel off the quiescent mecha. In time, the ever-present moisture would rot away even Simeon's double-thick armor, and rust would render it incapable of spaceflight.
Albedo did not care.
He carried with him the body of the last of his Kirschwassers. Sacrificed, as they all had been, to his mad ambitions. This Realian--once all her sisters were dead, he'd kept her alive for nearly a year out of pity. She'd become more herself and less MOMO, more like a daughter to him--a companion, as he roved the universe otherwise alone. But when at last the call came, he knew she could not come with him. So he had killed her, in a final act of kindness. It was the only gift he understood how to give anymore.
He stopped at the crest of a hill, just out from under the edge of the clouds. The rift stood high overhead in the night sky, glorious and violent as the universe's birth. Albedo gazed up into that wildness, violet eyes--for once in his life--perfectly calm, perfectly intent.
"I am here."
Though the frail words could never have gotten out of Eschaton's atmosphere, to traverse all the space separating the moon from the time rift...something heard. High above Eschaton, the wave consciousness unfolded its vast wings. A shadow fell over Albedo, just as the first drops of rain began to fall on his white hair.
At last, he was home.
From here, I will make my grand exit from the stage of life--a last hurrah. As it is a part of me, so I'm a part of it; the blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. Six hundred and sixty nine of us were supposed to die on Miltia; and so I'll be the last to repay that debt. I will live on. I am not an anti-existence.
I will live long enough to see this universe spin down and die--and someday be reborn from the ashes of another. The sun was born, and so it shall die...and so it always has been, but I am the flame that cannot be extinguished. I will spread my wings over another universe yet, and you will sing beneath their shadow...
This is the God of the New Age. See it, Rubedo! See what I've bought for us!
muse
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-20 01:08 am (UTC)The whole thing seems so very Albedo. Not to mention that last soliloquay gives a great impact.