A Nascent Dream

[Hawkeye_Gough 624]

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The following is a mundane dream (or rather a train of thought). It is not public information and is posted only for narrative purposes.

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The woman had left, and the father was forced to remain. She had told him of a black Phylactery, unearthed upon the new Continent, and he was unable to purge worry from his thirty three minds.

 

"Am I not like you?" The Madman asked to no-one. And, as always, no-one answered:

"Not. . . Enough. . ."

"Of course," was all that came in reply. The Madman thought to the tale of his predecessor, shared not so simply but through grimoire, and sermon, and vision, and death. Though the Madman did not see his predecessor in his thought, but rather himself. 

 

The Madman had walked a thousand miles from Aegis, leaving the battleground behind for his own battle. He knew in his heart that he could match any Aenguldaemon, but perhaps he could not best them. It did not matter, for he raised his Kingdom and ruled it fairly, kindly, godlessly. The day came, some years after his true ascent, where his adoration was undone. The Nemesis had battled with him, and the struggle lasted only a moment. They were locked, together, in a stark black Throne.

 

"I am not so unlike you," he argued then. "Were you not locked away, as I was? Were you not made to rule from your Seat, like I? Are you not... Forgotten?" The Madman raged in his mind but his words were measured. Surely he were not inadequate; not after each and every success. "Am I not like you?"

"Not. . . Enough. . ."

"So mote it be."

 

The Madman considered on, the story already out of order. The nameless Wraith was not born to be a king. He was not born as the nameless Wraith at all, but forged. Made to serve his higher purpose by the hands of others. A mutable and altered soul, far from the will of the so-called Gods and so far from the debased weakness of Man made Dark no longer. The Madman, seeing another as himself, was granted strength and then made to wrestle eternally with another in his resting place.

 

"Surely we are the same," he spoke again. "Like you, I am uncursed. My demise was in forty years, so what effect does limited nature have?" - "Like you, I am unblessed. I have never stepped into the Seven Skies and I never will." A wind passed, swirling around the forgotten kingdom and its nameless monarch. "And were you not made to house the Wraithsoul, and conjoined to the Aenguldaemon against your intent? What is the Greatgeist if not the modern Wraithsoul, and what is the Horror if not the Soulless Aengul?" He allowed his words to process, before asking yet again: "Am I not like you?"

"Not. . . Enough. . ."

"Doubtless."

 

There was little else for the Madman to call upon, except for their shared purpose. He did not need this story because he knew it in his heart; he could not exist without it.

 

"Did you not wield Strife? The sword shattered yet whole? And did you not lead your people with love, a more powerful tool than any weapon?" He begged, pleading his final essences. "I have led your virtue with blade against the Aenguls' shields. I have honored my people, praising them as they did me."

 

It occurred to him, then. The Difference. The Madman sought permit, pleading with his own vision of the Lord who was not there. He must no longer chase his dreams but instead make them. Finally, changed, his question came.

"Will I be like you?"

"You. . . May. . . Be."

 

And the woman returned to her Father, and he awoke. He did not speak about his dream, but hers. And the wise Lord was sated.