Prologue: Prayers for a Dying World









Down upon the Temple of light, my attentions are drawn. Atop this holy spire, my most devout disciples exit the lift and cross the drawbridge over to the Shrine of Light. The Clergy of Eleven approach The Pyre in a cone-shaped formation. Their heads are bowed and their pointed hoods hide much of their faces. The cool night air beats against them, flapping the long sleeves of their silver and blue robes. At their head walks Jansen Cor, the Lux Primera, my First of the Light. He marches bravely, fearlessly, toward the sacred relic and so easy it is for me to forget that he is the youngest to ever be granted this title. He moves with such conviction, prays with such fervency, and speaks with so much charm that even I, the one known as The All Powerful, cannot help but feel some awe at the very existence of such a nan. To his left and to his right, a train of five brothers follow him. They feel no envy over this nan’s post, their vote for him was unanimous. Not even at forty years of age yet, and he leads them up to the ultimate place of worship. He comes to a stop when he’s upon The Pyre’s gold-crested rim. Around him his brothers walk until they have surrounded the heart of my shrine.
They pause here, keeping their eyes down in solemn meditation. For a while they simply stand, waiting for me to turn my gaze upon them while they contemplate the words they are about to pray. I can feel how heavy their hearts weigh. I share in their fears. I can sense their doubts. Routine as this ritual may be, these times are anything but ordinary.  Jansen knows this. He keeps his uncertainty at bay, but holds his troubles close to his heart. He believes in me wholly and completely. He trusts that I will come through for him, but he fears he has no right to ask of me what he intends to tonight. He worries that I will look down upon him in disdain, but I could never. I yearn for him to speak the words that I know he wants to. I ache for him to lie his burdens down upon me that I might help him bear them. At last, he raises his head, takes a shallow breath, and speaks.
“My brothers, we gather here tonight to deliver worship to the most holy of holies. By the Right of the Eleven, this is our duty as well as our privilege. Tonight, as well as every night, we hope that our prayers might ascend to the heavens where they can be heard by The All Powerful. Tonight, we give the yearnings of our flock a voice. Let it be a holy and righteous one that fills our maker with the sincerest form of love. Unto The All Powerful, we proclaim:”
“Praise be to you, shaper of the land and sea, crafter of the stars above, and gardener of our people,” the ten brothers recite in unison, their voices rumbling together like waves crashing upon rocks.
Jansen remains still, his heart thumps inside of his chest although he’s outwardly serene. I’m gripped by his indecision. He must choose to boldly ask what no other Lux Primera has ever asked of me or to lead his brothers onward in their usual nightly prayer. He knows he can’t wait too long, his brothers have already noticed the pause.
“Brothers, on this night, we shall beseech our maker bravely and boldly,” he breaks from the ritual. His voice is as smooth as honey, but his hands tremble violently beneath the folds of his sleeves. “Tonight, we shall call out to The All Powerful and ask that we be granted patience and mercy in our request.”
A thrill pulses through me in anticipation of Jansen’s entreaty. I only hope he does not back out now in shame.
“We stand gathered here under the shade of the night, our hearts burdened by the darkness of our world. We would ask you who is all powerful to help us brighten the blackness that haunts us. We beg that you look down and have pity on what you see. Unrest can be found at every turn. Violence reigns in our city streets and criminals can be found even among those deemed elite. War knocks on our doorstep, threatening to undo our civilization. There are even those who would create mockeries of life, their machinations defaming the sacred gift you bestowed upon us. In the midst of all of this, we beg that you reach down and intervene. We implore that you not leave us to our own devices, for those devices are failing us. I stand here tonight with waning faith in our people, but with ever-stronger fervency in my belief that you will not let this be our end. Reach down unto us and grant us the favor of your mercy we beg. Pull us up from the pit that we have fallen into. Unto The All Powerful, we pray:”
“Show us thine light that we may ascend from the darkness of our world,” his brothers complete. They know the end of Jansen’s prayer and reply to it without hesitation even though it has never before been part of this ritual.
Jansen bows his head, his hood hiding the relieved grin he bears. It warms his heart to have the support of his brothers. He’d feared their judgement nearly as much as he feared mine. With his peace made and his arms now raised, he leads The Clergy in their chant to light The Pyre.
Avita cheme a rai leyuun
Kemme alam takalreeni aus
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
They sing in a language they cannot speak. The words are lost to them. They only know that they mean holy things. As they chant, the bottom plate of The Pyre becomes aglow with the fire of their prayer.
Avita lestallen omensansen
Kemme tuma oreki hanai
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
The light in The Pyre’s dish builds and bubbles upward into a magnificent sphere of light. It balloons outward, ready to burst into the sky.
Avit tensum a rai hanai
Kemme alam bensaren
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
Right on cue, the light from The Pyre shoots up into the night sky, bursting through the stars. Its light shines upward and outward for all in Pareatha, the crown city, to see. For some it brings hope, for others it solicits only scorn, but for most it goes entirely unnoticed. It’s just another part of this city to many, but not for the princess. No, from her balcony, she looks on at the power of The Clergy’s prayers. She admires the beauty of my grace.
Nansumen albu tenbanen kan
Turia alven maiken shirun
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
They reach the end of their verse and repeat the chant. Their spiritual fire burns bright before them, bright enough that they must avert their gaze from the majestic beam of light. It is their curse to never again look upon They Pyre’s brilliance directly, but they chant so that others may see it still.
Avita cheme a rai leyuun
Kemme alam takalreeni aus
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
Avita lestallen omensansen
Kemme tuma oreki hanai
OOOOHHHHHOOOOO
As they sing, I send my own power down through the product of their faith. The white flame that they’ve kindled, I now turn bright blue. Though The Clergy of the Eleven cannot look upon the light, they can still see that the color changed. They are bathed in the blue glow of my favor and they smile in knowing that I have heard them. Their hearts flood with hope that the Lux Primera’s request will be fulfilled. Their minds reel at my renewed promise to protect them.
Jansen is right to fear for the future of this world, Kaynam as it is called. As of now, it stands upon the precipice of its own demise. So unto this world, two saviors I will send in hopes that my wayward children can yet be saved. Will this act be enough I wonder? Will faith prevail over doubt? Will the end of this world be averted? Even in all my power, I know not the answers to these questions. I see all of the possible outcomes. I know which are more likely over others. But what makes the future such a fickle thing is the element of Hyunan choice. There are an incomprehensible amount of decisions made in each and every moment and so many of them can turn the tide of the future in a way that mortals shall never be able to understand. The road that lies ahead will be perilous. My heart goes with my children and my hopes I send down with the saviors that shall descend.
This may well be the story of our end…

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