There was always an end. To all things, to all life, to all existence, all creation, there was an end. The beginnings were oft easier to see and discern than the ends. The planting of seeds, the birth of children, some are more spectacular than others, greeted with greater fanfare and celebration. A farmer does not weep with joy at each new seed planted, but a mother will cherish a child above even their own lives. The birth of planets are cataclysmic events of terrifying power and magma and death for all but the most powerful of observers. The birth of stars filled with such wonder and majesty that no matter the power, all who witness such occurrences are driven to boundless realizations on the nature of reality itself.
The ends, though, the ends were different. Sometimes only subtly, The birth and death of a planet may look shockingly similar, as endings are usually just beginnings themselves. The tipping points in favor of new life, the genesis event around new cultures and new elements and new existences. The deaths of stars are similar to their inceptions as well, filling any who watch with stunning glimpses into the fabric of fundamental laws, if not simply taking them with it into the great boundless beyond. The ends of animals and plants, then, seem mundane by comparison. What could the death of a child do to compare with that of a planet, a star? However, this is where so many fall into the yawning abyss that is the moniker of simplicity. A felled tree can be, is just as profound an end as that of a star or a nebula. The light show simply isn’t as attractive in its flamboyance. To cut down a tree in the fullness of life, to fell its potential, its path, carving away at that which may have endured for generations to come, which has already endured for generations long passed, the insights were there. To mourn a child, dead before their time, the insights were there. Different aspects of the fold, of the overarching law of oneness, but not one iota less because of their inception, or their form, or their path.
Cain awoke from his dream. He wasn’t sure from where the dream had come. He had meditated for several years now, both in silent contemplation and in violent and defiant action against the world. He knew that was simply a misconception. He was of the world, of the fold, of the path, and could not ever be truly against it in any fundamental capacity. But it was still entertaining to play his part, all the while knowing it was an act of defiance and nothing more.
When he died, as he knew he would, he would return, a wave crashed, once again part of the greater ocean. A memory, a drop, a part of the whole.
However, he knew that not all waves were gentle. He had, through his ruminations, resolved himself to be the most spectacular wave on the world, a true tsunami at its peak.
Rising from the small bedroll of animal fur he’d long ago crafted for himself, he began his day as he did every day, whether he had slept or not.
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He knelt down on a ceremonial mat. It was the single exception that proved the rule for him. Everything he had, every possession in his repertoire, he’d made himself. With blood, sweat, tears, and raw will, he had made clothes, weapons, armor, food, drinks, shelters, towns, cities, canyons, and more. This mat, however, was a gift. A gift from the divine, crafted specifically for him.
Placing his feet behind, and his palms flat on the ground fingers pointed directly at one another, he knelt low until his forehead hit the ground. He said a silent prayer, staying in this pose unmoving and unflinching for as long as it took to feel a connection, to be noticed by the holy patron.
Cain knew, of course, that the patron was simply another on the path, of the fold. However, his was a path of elevated status, one that very few in the world could ever even hope to walk, to achieve, to experience. As such, he knew it was part of his path to support the patron, and be supported by him. Like a pillar holds up the dome above, but would fall if not for the weight it held.
He was shocked, however, when today the presence descended almost instantly, like it had been waiting for him to enter prayer, and was eager to accept him this day.
He knelt, rooted to the spot until the presence eventually departed. He had stayed for quite a while, instructing and imparting as he saw fit to do with Cain. And the information it had given was… unfortunate. Cain had spent more than three decades secluded on the mountain peaks, hunting and being hunted. It was one of the few places in the world that still held challenges for him. But after the information his patron had just granted, Cain knew his seclusion was coming to an end.
Standing, he flexed his left fist, and four ornate stars slowly bleed onto his skin. Each was a rusty maroon, exactly like dried blood. Each star was comprised of three crossed war axes, their long handles extending down from the bottom, their curved and bladed peaks extending from the top. At the point where they crossed, a simple rounded shield held true details he observed. Three of the stars were identical, the center shield divided into thirds of darkest night with a single dot of brightest crimson at their center. The fourth was unfortunately only divided into half, with two red specks in their respective areas.
Cain had felt he was close, tantalizingly close to getting his third crimson on the fourth star, but he could not delay. Not when the patron had demanded he go.
Grabbing his own axe from where it lay in the bed next to where he slept, he then went out the well carved door to descend the mountain.
If his patron was correct, something had happened that would undoubtedly spark war in the world, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the beginning of the current era some decades earlier.
He’d been merely a one star back then, and was ecstatic at the prospect ahead. His tidal wave might crash earlier than expected, but the idea of returning so many to the fold filled him with glee.