Entry 6:
Coming out of the staircase cave, I start climbing the soaring river, this thin film of water not giving in under my indigo booths. It’s a spiraled, gentle slope uphill, and the water curls around the araucarias and snakes among the branches of scaled trees that you won’t find on any nook or cranny of the world. I dare not take a guess at how big the last floor is. Even when one ascends it’s massive; but now my eyes see no walls at all, just a ground teeming with vegetation, a cloud-speckled sky the same color as my footwear, and a horizon where they meet. The soft moss on the stones of many colors is just as variegated as them and passes me by as they lazily drift or roll up this impossible river. On some trunks mushrooms flat and wide, yellow or pink, grow, and they seem to be amalgamations of countless smiles when stared at from the right angle. The air is impregnated with a sweet floral scent that tries to bring a thousand memories to the front of my mind, but deftly dodges all my attempts at recognition.
Why, Ilucaris, do you give me a beautiful landscape to traverse? I imagine it is a bribe you are offering, a temptress’ attempt at preserving her child.
Bribe I am not taking. The landscape may fulfill the aesthetical needs of men, but needs you left me none, Ilucaris. I know beauty, but its lack causes no distress in me. Beauty, like air, like sunlight, like love, can be there or not. Any god who has lived as long as me has learned to suffer not their absences. I don’t even need a heart pumping blood inside my chest, Tower. A floating river drawing bows and other cute doodles in the sky and a fetid hell filled to the brim with crawling, squirming creatures with putrescent flesh hold the same appeal to me.
But no, you know me too well tower… not a bribe. A provocation, perhaps? A childish tantrum? I don’t know. I cherish such ignorance. Your sole existence, Ilucaris, weakens my nigh omniscience. And what a wonderful gift that is!
As I ascend further I hope that, after the river loses itself among clouds of orange, I may find an exit. Her forest below is silent, not a single bird chirps, not a lone bug chitters. Ilucaris made this paradise a tranquil, meditative safe haven for the mind.
An elegy. This is her elegy. Perhaps, even when a child betrays her, a mother ought to love them still.
To you who know my soul, Ilucaris: to you I will admit that I am sorry. I must trudge onwards. Upwards the river, which means downwards your entrails. I wish I could live forever. But it is not for the man I am now, nor for the last thousand men I have been. I envy those who rest in coffins without fear of waking up. I tried to sleep forever, but the dreams are as tortuous as the waking reality. Since I discovered the finitude of existence, the absence of an immortal soul and an afterlife, I have taken a fascination with the mortuary rites. I have lied to grieving daughters and sons by telling them their loved ones were now somewhere better. And it was not only a lie because it failed to address a truth, but also because I would consider no afterlife better, not without my essence being twisted by it to some unrecognizable extent. I like to complete my tasks when possible. And my life won’t be complete until I cease to be, completely, utterly. I don’t seek peace in death. I don’t seek relief or a reward. I don’t even seek punishment for my misdeeds, for there’s no authority to identify them as such. I don’t wish for death because many of the people who I have thus far loved perished already: I can rebuild them. I have done so, to the last atom, to the last thought. I have killed men and women twice to prove points I didn’t need to. Everything men hold sacred is utterly worthless to me, the eternal, the all-powerful. And therefore, the one thing they can have and I cannot becomes infinitely valuable.
That’s it: as long as I am alive, I am incomplete. Grant me completion, merciful tower.
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Entry 7:
In front of me strides a man. We find ourselves in a collision course, a golden sword made out of pure sunlight dancing around him. I can see his thoughts: he intends to battle me as a way to prove his prowess, thinks of me as a test sent by the heavens. Had he found any other god, he would be right.
He charges, his sword multiplying around him, it reminds me of an autumnal wind carrying dried willow leaves. I could stop him. I won’t. I don’t feel like killing a near-god today. The blades accelerate, shooting towards me, impaling my chest, my arm, my legs. It should hurt. I wish I could make it hurt in a way that mattered. All I intend to do is keep on walking.
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“I don’t feel like bleeding today. Apologies,” I tell him as soon as I come within earshot. This is not his last floor, despite being my first. That’s not how the tower works.
The man stops, and opens his arms wide, showing his palms at the height of his waist. A useless act to tell his weapons to torn my flesh asunder. And they do. They cut, they sever, they rip through my bones and organs and clothes. The clothes regenerate immediately: I am not descending the tower in tatters as long as I can avoid it.
I bleed not a drop: that would taint the river’s water, which would truly be a shame.
The weapons cut, too, through this diary. I also restore it immediately. I care about it way more than about my liver.
Seeing his attack doesn’t stop me he commands his floating blades of light to sever my head, which promptly falls to the forest before reappearing back over my shoulders. I crack my neck. What a nuisance this little man resulted to be.
“My intentions are merely peaceful, climber. “I say as I pass him by and he drives a jab to my stomach, which, after connection, sends the anatomy of his hand into disarray, causing him enough pain to kneel and cry as he holds his crushed wrist and looks at the sorry, swollen results of his impulsiveness.
With a mere thought I restitute his hand to its healthy state. I pat him on the shoulder and keep on walking.
He turns to look at me, sobbing from both fear and amazement. I also turn and address him for a short instant. I believe, in the gentlest of ways, that he deserves to die. But there’s no better argument against eternal life than letting its seekers taste it.
“Do you want a gift?” I offer, covering my tattered, grotesque flesh with my cape. I don’t feel like rebuilding my body immediately.
“What?” he stutters, and stares at me like a dog who did something wrong.
“I have boundless knowledge of the world outside the tower. I don’t need it anymore. My omniscience is useless in here. Some would call it a burden. Do you want it? It may let you skip a floor. And… swords? You could use blasts of energy, or guns. Or a bit of creativity.”
He decided to ignore the last part of my statement. “Where’s the trick? You are testing me somehow, right?”
“I can bring your dear mother back to life with the sole intent of bedding her, and I will do it if you keep implying I have come to test you. The gift comes with no strings attached besides its own nature.”
The wind cradles the long red hairs of the sobbing man in tis invisible tendrils. For him, this fresh breeze flows to the east. My dark green cape waves towards the west. Just a caprice of mine, to defy physics regarding the small details while I still can.
The man’s face lights up with hope. “Gods can bring the death back to life? It’s not a mere insult?”
“For the sake of truth: we can. That doesn’t mean we often do: Most immortals stop caring about the individuals below, sooner or later. No love burns eternal, Teralos.”
His head shots back when I say his name, his eyes wide open.
“I can read minds.” I tapped my left temple with my index. “Except this one.”
“Will your gift tell me how to survive the tower and recover my family? I cannot live with having… killed them in that accident.”
I fake a smile. “Yes. But there’s a high price to pay. You will lose one of the keystone traits of humanity. You, little curious monkey, will become this perfect celestial being. The only place where you will ever experience wonder or awe again will be here, inside Ilucaris. Heed my warning, young man: they sold you a myth about grandeur. When there are no gods above your head, when you can crush empires or raise them with a mere wink, when death is as easy to undo as the unfolding of a blanket, everything becomes senseless.”
“You are saying godhood is a curse?”
“I am saying it requires a very particular mind to remain psychopathic enough to enjoy it for all eternity. Some gods do. There’s one that destroys the world weekly, then another rebuilds it with no trace of the destruction ever happening. There’s a third one that constantly keeps tabs on the position and momentum of a single sub-atomic particle. Then there’s me. I found the tower again. I entered from the top. I will come out by the bottom, dead or nearly so.”
Teralos nods in acceptance. “I can’t live with the guilt. My mother, my wife. My son. I… I should have slept better that night. I prayed for a second chance. I prayed so hard. Nobody answered.”
I don’t feel like shrugging, or even making an adequate facial expression. “No, we often do that. Ignoring prayers. Answering gets too boring too soon. Do you want the gift, yes or no? Say it loud and clear.”
Teralos stood over the flowing waters, with some difficulty to find his footing once again, and stared at the fall behind the thin film of liquid. Then his eyes met mine, determination burning inside the naïve man. “I do. I’ll accept your gift.”
I snap my fingers, merely for show, and unimaginable amounts of knowledge about the furthest reaches of the universe begin emigrating from my mind and into his. “It will arrive gradually. You are dealing with someone considerate enough to not make you go mad from revelation. Farewell, hope you die someday.”
The impulsive youngster grimaces, but soon a smile finds its way into his face. “Goodbye to you too! And sorry for attacking you! And thank you!”
My gesture, a little flicker of the hand, is unimpressive when compared to his energetic waving. Then again, I have no intention of missing anyone for long.