In the beginning, there was Solitude.
And it was alone.
Solitude knew this, and wept, for it was aware of nothing but the gaping emptiness it felt. The endless abyss of loneliness that awaited it.
And for seven millennia it cried, until the world had been flooded with its tears.
And then Solitude was not alone.
Life had been born! Solitude watched it with careful impatience, for it knew how delicate Life could be.
And it was delicate. Solitude spent an eternity watching the mats of simple, slimy life.
It watched the tiny components arrange themselves into ever more complex forms.
It watched these gestalts tear each other apart.
It watched them crawl from the muck onto the land, and take wheezing breaths of stale air.
It watched as Life met its gaze, and Life looked back at its oldest companion.
And Solitude wept once more, for it would never be alone again.
----------------------------------------
Seven scribes from seven paths
Blessed by sacred bonds
Faced the seven gilded thrones
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Whence sat the seven gods
Seven scribes from seven paths
Slew seven wretched things
Who’d for seven hundred years
Snared us in silver strings
Seven scribes from seven paths
Godsblood staining their hands
Were forced to go their separate ways
To seven distant lands
And seven scribes turned demigods
Their struggles all for naught
Sealed themselves away to spare
The freedom they so sought
----------------------------------------
Dearest Daphnis,
Construction in Arcadia goes well. Though he is as far away from me as you, wise Algernon's designs are beyond what I could have ever envisioned. It is strange... he tells me he doesn't know where the architecture is coming from. It is nothing like anything here, at least. The mansion, a mirror to our old one, is stunning... I wish you could see it. I suppose you could, if you looked to ours.
They are identical, at least on the outside, but Picard has outdone himself on the interior. He, too, tells me he has no idea where his inspiration comes. He says they remind him of an old friend, but he cannot place a name. He insists that the completed building be called Pick's Mansion, which is a dreadfully stupid name, but I'm inclined to let him keep it. Something about it makes me feel nostalgic, too.
Tell me of your own preparations, please. I know they aren't as elaborate, but you should be proud of what you've done on your own. We've made people happy. We're making people happy.
You should be happy, too.
Say hello to Uther for me.
—Your love, Polybius