UPON waking at first light, when the priestess had finished her salutation to the Sun, they made to the doors at the western end of the dome and saw that, like in the other halls, they were left slightly ajar enough to allow Hvesykhiḥ to pass through.
Past the sliver, they once more came into darkness. Slowly did the walls alight, and they beheld the large murals, inscriptions, pillars and statues beside each of the pillars from what they saw were kneeling. Yet it was strange, for the walls continued to brighten: lit to great effulgence, as if the Sun was basking all corners in its glow. In time, they revealed forms of beige and dark brown from floor to ceiling.
The pillars stood high and wide, as tall if not taller than the ones they saw in other palaces and structures, sculpted on all ends with celestials above and below, as if they were welcoming them into the chambers. It seemed the further the group proceeded into the ruins, the more massive things became, as if to herald their meeting with the soon to be reached giant.
They walked by the equally tall statues that went from kneeling to upright. They could see inscriptions lining the walls on the right side, written in the script of the Gazhigam. And on the left, a great long mural depicting vast cities of gold and white, spread across the stars that seemed to slowly one by one fall to the darkness. Further down was shown a great blue star turned red and the subsequent death and flight of its people from what looked to be its destruction. These people fled toward another blue planet. A great darkness covered the Star and its siblings to the far end of the universe, as the Gods staved this darkness, seeming to succumb to it and thereafter arise, and welcome the fleeing people upon the blue planet. The attire of the exiles looked little different from what the people of Ārhmanhaḥ wore.
The group, while enamored by its awe, could not help but feel unease.
“Hey Yūrmatṛtha, what’s this painting showing, and why is the Gazhigam script written on the walls?” asked Tūmbṃār. “Didn’t you say your ancestors took great care of the ruins? Well, I guess it’s not much of a problem if that side was empty and they wanted to write what they thought of this place.”
Yūrmatṛtha laughed and said, “I am sorry, but we had adopted this script for our own use. Unfortunately, we could not decipher it, using the symbols as is to write the words of Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr. The inscriptions you saw before, including the ones in Gazhigashrahthya, were all written in Ahasṭṛṭhaḥr, though of course I do not fault you for not knowing of it.
“As for the painting, I am afraid I myself am unsure of what it depicts,” to which Tūmbṃār knew he was partially truthful of, though Yūrmatṛtha himself did seem unsure of what he had related the night before, “but if the stars and planets within the mural are anything to go by, these people of the likeness of the Mānuzhhaḥ do not seem to have hailed from Ārhmanhaḥ, and have come from where this red star inhabits. Perhaps there is more to the story of our beginnings than what the stories of old relate. It is not hard to imagine that just as the Daivhaḥhō took to the stars, the Mānuzhhaḥ themselves could have done the same. But it is strange.”
He looked to Aiṛthyavā and Iḷēhaḥ, and said, “You two would surely be the most well-versed in our shared history. Tell us, is there anything in our records that mentions this? I and even Hvesykhiḥ are at a loss to what is shown here.”
Hvesykhiḥ nodded, remaining silent, all while avoiding their gaze. Hard it was to tell if she meant to hide details concerning the ruins or if she, in truth, knew nothing of it.
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Aiṛthyavā spoke, “Unfortunate as it is, I know nothing of this. In the many scrolls and records we have, the earliest account, that we know of, is the creation of the universe by Ishvhaḥṃār and the other gods, then the birth of the Celestials, then the birth of the lesser Daivhaḥhō—such as your kin, Yūrmatṛtha—then the birth of the Mānuzhhaḥ, then the search for the Vaisvyamhaḥ in the ocean of the cosmic nectar from where it is said that Vshephaḥ had taken the form of a celestial boar and lifted Ārhmanhaḥ to its present position of where the other planets had also thence come, and finally, the fall of the Mānuzhhaḥ and the fall of those who would become the Yavhaḥṃār.
“While it is certainly much, I am sure there is no recollection of the Mānuzhhaḥ—or even the Ṃārhaḥn for that matter—fleeing from the stars to Ārhmanhaḥ and combating some great darkness in their midst.”
Iḷēhaḥ, after looking at the mural for some time, said, “Not even I know of what it recounts. ’Tis otherworldly. Perhaps it could have very well occurred in another universe. As I am sure you all know, there are many stories recounting of other places in separate dimensions, of which the Gods used to travel through back and forth. My forefathers related such stories to me, as did the Zūryashhaḥ who dwelt in the higher realms, yet never have I heard of a story as depicted on this mural. And yet as I gaze on it, it feels somehow familiar, as if I have forgotten some events that had occurred in ages past.”
“Perhaps it’s one of your past lives speaking to you,” said Feyūnhaḥ, as she laughed.
“I am being serious here, princess!” said Iḷēhaḥ with a stern look.
Then Feyūnhaḥ recalled what she had said to her and Tūmbṃār in Siḍhrehḷūr. With hesitation she said, “Iḷēhaḥ, you told us some time ago that one of your own had died. While I would not like to suggest this, seeing as how the Gods themselves searched for the immortal ambrosia within the ocean of cosmic nectar, could it be that the one you spoke of died in whatever conflict we see occurring here?”
“Wait, the death of a god!” shouted Aiṛthyavā. “That cannot be! It is said the Gods are immortal. Many of the stories related in the histories we, the Servants, have surmised to be tall tales, for how else can the role of Daryurhaḥ, who himself rules over death, be explained. But you say that one of the Dehaḥṃār has fallen! Tell me, goddess, is this true?”
Iḷēhaḥ remained silent and bit her lips. Aiṛthyavā immediately put her hand over the mouth of her mask and apologized profusely.
“The sage did tell us there’s some inconsistency with our history,” said Sanyhaḥmān, “though this seems far from any revision or corruption. When we see him again, you can ask him as such, Aiṛthyavā.”
She thanked Sanyhaḥmān, and remained silent after, not wishing to incite controversy. But she mulled over his words. Unlike the others, her interest in matters of religious history was more vested, though even she could not be stubborn enough to dismiss the words of the sage if they proved counter to what she knew.
Iḷēhaḥ said solemnly, “I had spoken too much at that time. I will speak no further on the veracity of my words and leave you to decide. ’Tis yet another matter that I cannot relate.”
“Why do you wish to keep hiding things from us?” said Feyūnhaḥ, now angered. “Speak your mind! What should the Dehaḥṃār care, aren’t you one of them?”
“And do you not do the same, princess!” retorted Iḷēhaḥ. “Do you not hide things from us yourself?” Feyūnhaḥ could not respond. Iḷēhaḥ, calming herself, continued, “While it does concern the other Dehaḥṃār, never did I say I was of their order, but I shall speak no more of it. Think as you will.”
Silence came between them. Feyūnhaḥ sighed, knowing she would not get a direct answer from her. It proved especially troubling for Aiṛthyavā, for she wished to know more of the Dehaḥṃār and the Daivhaḥhō and of much more of the higher realms; things of which the texts themselves did not contain. And owing to what Sanyhaḥmān had said, she now held doubts and wondered whether the priests and priestesses of higher rank knew of this. But she and the rest knew they could get no further information and so continued onward into the long hall, holding their silence about each other. Tūmbṃār took glances at Iḷēhaḥ to his side, who did not weep, but silently shed tears, and he felt at that moment as helpless as he was in months past.