…

……

…………

… Where am I?

Zephyrin sought to turn his head, of which he was no longer the possessor. He strove to open eyes that were no longer his, to speak with a tongue that now lay dumb. His heart had ceased to beat, and was fated to crumble to dust in the crypt of his forefathers. Zephyrin did not understand this yet. All he knew was that he was subsumed in an impenetrable darkness, the likes of which he had never seen before and could have never fathomed to exist.

What was so particular about this darkness? He tried to understand. Darkness was simply the absence of light, he vaguely formulated to himself, still uselessly trying to extend his senses and grasp at his surroundings. That being so, this obscurity should not differ significantly from a room devoid of light, or a moonless night… but it did. Where was he? What was happening to him?

And then, a Presence moved in the darkness.

Zephyrin was suddenly conscious of the fact that this darkness… was in fact in abyss. It was as if he were situated at the edge of a precipice, like a newborn bird whose parent had imperceptibly shifted, and nearly been sent tumbling down hundreds, thousands—nay, millions of leagues by the merest rustle of its wings. But Zephyrin was safe, he told himself; he was overlooking the abyss, he…

Zephyrin felt himself fall. He tried to cry out, but couldn’t. Helpless, he fell what seemed an interminable distance…

(I have thee in the shadow of My wing.)

A Voice spoke, and Zephyrin stopped. Stopped, or realized that all along he had actually been still, stationary in the abyss. But, before he could consider the matter further…

… Ah!!

…a blinding light pierced his soul.

What… What was this?! Zephyrin’s existence writhed within itself, like a tormented worm trying to escape an inquisitive child’s fingers. He wanted to cower, he wanted to hide—he even wanted to cease to exist.

(Know that I am moderating My splendor out of consideration for thee, My son,) the Voice continued softly.

At that precise moment, he felt an acute, indescribably vivid sense of pain. Yet strangely it was not external to him; it came from within. In his disembodied state, Zephyrin knew that if he had hands, he would be clutching his head; if he had eyes, they would be painfully shut, all the while tears ran freely down his face; if he had legs, knees, he would be bowed down upon them—no, he would be prostrate, cowering before the awesome presence before him, the Light which was blinding not to his nonexistent sight, but instead his very mind. Like a shadow-swathed room of which the windows have been wrenched open and into which pour the rays of an ardent sun, Zephyrin felt the dark recesses of his self, every facet of his existence being flooded with a light that did not illuminate without burning, and did not burn without dispelling the darkness it encountered. Zephyrin suddenly received the insight that if the Voice did not so will otherwise, he would cease to exist upon a moment’s exposure, evaporating like a drop of dew on a leaf in the path of a raging forest fire.

But… for all the violence the Light did him…

It itself was not violent. It was no inferno, no chaotic, uncontrolled conflagration. On the contrary, it was intentioned, and Zephyrin perceived in a mysterious manner that its every movement was deliberate, its every vehemence the product of unfathomably complex calculations, as if the wild, lashing tongues of a roaring fire were spontaneously intellectualized, and their random movements were transformed into an intricate dance of flame, one weaving around helpless trees without utterly consuming them. The presence was an onslaught of lightning, each blast enough to shatter rock, but every time falling by the side; it was a gargantuan tidal wave that rose above and drowned very worlds but receded before swallowing him up. He was splashed by its spray and shocked by its might, but left otherwise unscathed.

Atom that he now found himself to be, Zephyrin was terrified… and, what was perhaps more frightening, he was conscious that his terror was a source of pain to the Voice. He was afraid, not of the Voice itself, which was gentle, inviting, and full of love, though that in itself caused him pain, but rather because of the words it spoke.

‘My son.’ The Voice had pronounced these words with such ineffable goodness, such softness, that Zephyrin thought he dissolve into nothingness at their very sweetness. Could his soul withstand this yearning tenderness? It was less imaginable to him that it should, than that he would survive if it were to utter another word.

“Who… Who are you?!” he thought frantically, almost senselessly. He had been thinking to himself; he hadn’t expected an answer. But an answer there came.

(I am She whom thou hast loved all thy life.)

The words… sounded in his mind like a death-knell. The one… he had loved? Zephyrin could name no one of that description, no one for whom his heart had beaten… and a sinking, horror-filled sensation rose within him as the thought readily occurred to him of the one whom he should have loved. Had not he been told over and over again, as a child? Had he not sat through sermon on sermon, as the impassioned preacher’s words washed over him? He had… but he had not listened. It had remained an abstract concept throughout his entire life, the existence of the Goddess…

For it was she whom he feared this Voice to be. What other explanation was there? He had died, and now he was confronted by creation’s Source. This was the Goddess, whose embrace he had supposedly longed for throughout his life, whose perfections he would have said he ardently desired to behold, yet who now terrified him by her majesty and beauty. He was haunted by the sensation that something was deeply wrong. Deep down, some part of him told him that he should be able to ride exultantly over the spiritual deeps and surges of her divine energy, like a masterfully crafted ship effortlessly gliding over roiling breakers; should be joining an interior fire to her own, to form and stoke one bright, unified flame to untold heights; should offer his being to her, as she offers hers to his, for them to meld into one being of light…

But, instead…

He was incapable of movement, incapable of thought—of daring to raise the sight of his soul to the multicolored, rippling perfections of the presence. He was bewildered by its impossible iridescence, its shimmering, humming, vibrating qualities; now it seemed unimaginably still, like a mountain established before the foundation of the world and which successive eons would not succeed in budging an inch; then it seemed impossibly fast, an oscillating blur defying human sight and comprehension.

Before the Presence, he was only dimly aware of his own existence, of the world that had been. In the midst of his agitation, a distant memory came to him: of the time when, as a small child, his mother had taken him to the royal glasshouse, and just outside at the bird feeder he had seen a hummingbird hovering over a flower… he remembered asking his mother about the bird’s wing-beats, and being told that they seemed still not despite, but precisely because of their inhuman rapidity…

That was, in however poor a fashion, a reflection of the effect by which he was presently overawed. And what now baffled him was that the Voice seemed intent on helping him understand; knowledge flooded into his mind, seemingly for the purpose of helping him reconcile himself to the present reality. The thought abruptly came to him that before this Being he was not a drop of water, not a molecule, nor even an atom faced with the ocean; and then that was quickly succeeded by another thought, before he could even stop to consider what sub-atomic entities are, that even with the benefit of millennium stacked upon millennium he could never succeed in fathoming the depth of thought of this creature, of which only a poor approximation of its intelligence could be conveyed by comparing its thoughts to supernovas, its synapses to galaxies, and the uniform structure of its mind to the vast, egg-shaped expanse which he now knew to be the universe.

Zephyrin reeled motionlessly. He felt scorched by the fathomless abyss; he could only conclude he was drowning in fire. The Voice looked upon him—perceived him, encompassed him—with inexpressible sadness.

With what he willed to be a scream, but came out with as much force as the sifting of ash by a limpid breeze, Zephyrin conveyed to the Goddess:

Please… help me! please help me be… what I ought to be!…

No sooner had he finished articulating the thought than the Presence moved.

Zephyrin gasped as he felt himself gain new strength. Fire was infused into his heart. He was burned, and wanted to scream, but he gained new resolve. Though the fire agonized him, he perceived that it reduced the darkness within him, the fear and shame. And then, in the all-consuming penumbra, the Light made herself darkness—as faint a reflection of Herself as the new moon is of the sun. Her existence was shadowy, muted—and Zephyrin knew it had to be, for if it were made apparent to him, he would be annihilated on the spot, a mere hailstone plunged into a star.

In a mysterious way, she stood before him, indistinct but unquestionably humanoid. Even in her ethereal, shadowy form, Zephyrin could perceive that she was lovely beyond the conceiving of mortal mind, eclipsing by the faintest shadow of her being the greatest masterpieces of flesh and blood nature could form. Her beauty transcended earthly ken because it was spiritual, yet because it was spiritual it was fundamentally like unto that of earth.

The Presence regarded Zephyrin for a moment, he trembling before her gaze, then clasped her hands together. As she did so an image entered Zephyrin’s mind, as well as a torrent of knowledge. He saw… a blond-headed infant in the arms of a dark-haired woman. Next to her was a man peering down at the bundle in her arms, and whose face he couldn’t see clearly. In beholding them Zephyrin felt he grasped everything about their existences; their names and ages, the husband’s occupation…and most importantly, the country which they called home.

Gaulyria. His homeland. The word shone in his mind like a beacon, it swelled like a glorious horn call. A shiver of elation traversed Zephyrin’s soul.

That child, in the woman’s arms… is that me?

(It can be.)

Zephyrin’s thoughts flew every which way. Striving to master himself, he mentally asked, “What must I do?”

(Be what thou hast ever thought thyself to be.)

Zephyrin felt sick at the words, as if a knife had been thrust through his heart, yet knew he deserved them. And, though still overawed, he felt emboldened by the Voice’s quiet solicitude. Surely, if she meant him harm, he would have been destroyed by now, plunged into a dark and infernal region where he had no possibility of offending her by his wretched presence? The fact that she tolerated his insipid existence, his dull mind and lukewarm heart, was that not proof she had his best interest at heart? That he would receive, in some manner… a second chance?

Zephyrin dared to present an inquiry. The world you—thou hast shown me… it was mine, but different…

(That is so,) the Presence confirmed. (Thou shalt live again, but before thine own time.)

Zephyrin was stunned. Will I… see my father?

(Thou mayest.)

… Please, send me back!

(If thou returnest, know that one day I will demand of thee the ultimate sacrifice,) the Presence cautioned him.

The ultimate sacrifice? What did that mean to Zephyrin, who was already dead? What did he have left to lose?… Wait. If this was a test…

… I beseech of Thee to send me back, Lady, unless this sacrifice entails the loss of my soul, and deprives me of thee for all eternity.

The Presence smiled gently. Zephyrin felt rather than saw it.

(If thou remainest true to me in thy next life, I will be true to thee.)

Then…? Zephyrin hung in suspense. Would he… go back? To before his own time? To the momentous, world-shaking era when his father shattered the thrones of the mighty, and built his empire out of the rubble of the old order?

(Wilt thou serve me unconditionally, My son?)

I…

I will.

A bright light emanated from the Woman… and then all once more was darkness.