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Each streak of light—like the mark of a claw—left its smoldering wound upon the heavens as the vessels burned and fell.
No blade can cut the Devil down, they said.
With every threshold we cross we become someone new, for every place is new, and every hour, and with every moment we are changed.
There will always be peace. It is only a question of when. War is energy, and energy runs down. The universe returns to rest, and whether that rest comes without any conflict or after it is another matter entirely.
“Miudanar!” it said. “The Dreamer!”
It was the first time I ever heard that hateful name. I knew it not then, but I looked for the first time upon the likeness of one older than Time. Miudanar the Great, the Dreamer, who dead and deathless sleeps until the stars burn down.
Hadrian, name for me the Eight Forms of Obedience. Gibson’s words floated back to me.
I almost yearned for cryonic fugue again, to sleep between the stars. Half-dead, at least, I’d sleep.
That what is right and just is often difficult to see and more difficult to know does not mean there is nothing just or right in creation, only that we are ourselves inadequate in its pursuit.
Justice, by its very nature, must be retributive. Punishment must follow crime, and cannot precede it. Criminals cannot be brought to justice before their crimes, because before their crimes they are not criminals.
Man becomes monstrous by his actions, though the monster dwells in all our hearts, as it dwells in mine. Lurking. Waiting. Biding its time.
I raised my sword and—doing so—blackened her sky forever.
