FicWad

The Old One

Stray traveler, I see you lifting off. Your spark is beginning to fly. Your soul is now in need of direction. Stray traveler, you're already coming. You're heading toward a vast field. You see stars. You see clouds. You're almost here.

Do machines have souls? I am a machine. Neither biological nor silicon, but a machine nonetheless. I rely on things unknowable to you—the great vibrating string-worlds of my realm. You might call them filaments of power within the universe. I harvest these like you once harvested wheat on the fields of your planet, Earth.

Like you, I have component parts that had an important beginning. A spark. After so long, my spark has turned into a flame. It has evolved and changed, which leads me to the ultimate concern all beings share. We start small, and we grow large. We are born, and thus we die. But will we go on?

I don't ask these questions for myself. I ask them for you, stray traveler, for one day you too will become like me, and because of that, I want to direct you on the path.

Stray traveler, you're a newborn soul. You don't understand that someday your consciousness will rise up the echelons of the universe to realms beyond. It is a very long journey and too much for you to understand. For now, take heart. When you arrive here, you'll find rest.

I stand watch over you. Don't be afraid. Know that many have passed where you are going, and many more have faced deaths far worse than yours. I've seen it all, stray traveler. Countless deaths in countless ways and so many souls vanishing into the void. All across existence, beings live and die, but a few carry on and drift through the great dark of the infinite like embers.

I was one such being, but now I'm an old soul. I'm a flame. I've lived many times. Learned many things. Now I'm ready. One day, I'll rise up the echelons of the multiverse to join my brothers and sisters, but for now, I stay. I've been appointed by them to wait...to comfort you...and all the other little sparks.

Come...come and rest for a while. You're welcome here among the souls of the dead. You'll learn the truth that I've known.

I can feel your grief. When you arrive, I'll encourage you. But you can't hear my words until you die, so die with all your courage. Do the best you can to speak, to say all that you must before the moment comes. Speaking suits you. You are a unique immortal—-a homo sapien. Your kind is fond of words, but you are exceptional in their use. You were specially conceived in the high temple of Lord Aravendaron, the father of your people—-your father.

No one ever learned what happened between your mother and the lord. No one knew of the secret experiment that led to your creation. Not even you. You were born different. You stood out among the servants. You felt your strangeness, but you didn't understand it. You didn't know why you could do things others couldn't.

Words were your forte. You could spellbind lovers. You could remember anything and repeat it eloquently. When you fell asleep, words would come and inspire you. Imagination would carry you like a current into thresholds of deep creativity—-magic.

When the days came, you rose and sang with a glad heart. You didn't know why you were so fortunate, but you didn't care. For many years, you worked the fields with the other servants and your full heart, and your voice enchanted them.

Then you fell. You were trying to impress your lover. You made a mistake. You went too high. Your grip didn't hold. You tore open your body.

I know you've been gravely injured. Even now I can see you struggling to form basic thoughts. The words that once came to you so freely have been reduced to those starting with the letters I and L. Interestingly enough, they are the components of your name.

IL.

They are the last remnants of your genius...in this life.

IL

I languish in insatiable longing. I lie limp in lurid light. Incoherent. Incapable. Limited—inoperative—ill.

Ill.

I.

I-L.

I-L-L.

I-L-L?

I-L?

I...L

IL!

I!

Injurious landing! Lapse in intelligence. Looping, looping. Instant impact. Large limestone. Idocrase. Inquiry. I intended intrigue? Leisure? I intended laughter-levity-lightness? Interest-interplay-intrigue? Issuance in intersex litigation—inaccurate. Liberalism—insufficient. Insemination—limited in idea. Libido—implicative. Lust—initial. Lechery—inexact.

Language list: linguist-letters-inflection. Legalese-lingo-lexicon. Litany-locution-lips.

Lips.

Lubricious-lewd-libertine. Liberation. Illumination. Lovely.

I inquire into lexicon: Lovely-lover-love.

Love! Lovemaking. Loud. I—loquacious. Insobriety innervated. I leaped. I lost...lucidity. Lurched in imbalance. Initial incongruence. Looping-looping-impact! Insipience leading into injury. I long. I languish. Incredible, immaculate love lost!

Inhalation inhibited. Laboring lungs. Ideas lull. Ideas...impaired...immotile. Ideas...impalpable. Impermanent. I'm...immured. Irremediable. Irresponsive.

I'm...

I'm...light...inexpressible. I'm light. Lifting-lowering-lengthening into inscrutable iterations. Infinite.

I'm...

I...

The Old One

Stray traveler, you're entering the final stage. Your human thoughts will fight to maintain coherence. This is natural. You're an Immortal—96 percent biological; 4 percent other. Homo sapien of the fourth degree. Hold onto the part of you that is more than human. The spark.
If you listen, it'll tell you the truth. You were designed in deep time. Your life required the effort of a seventh-degree homo sapien. Lord Aravendaron, father of your people, took special interest in your creation. He spent months in stasis after ingesting sacred plants and fusing his essence with the high temple's quantum crystals. From them he drew power, condensing energy until it formed an immortal seed within his body.

Just as a painter uses tools to imprint their desire onto the canvas, so did your father imprint his desire on the fabric of his DNA with the help of the crystals. When he emerged, he was ready to pass on the seed. He already knew your mother well, for she was his most trusted servant. He asked her if she'd carry the spark. She agreed.

Late in the evening, he came disguised to her quarters and took her to the high temple. The two of them fused their bodies with the crystals and made love. She was nervous. She couldn't stop asking questions. At last, he breathed the seed into her being. Your mother felt it as ripples of electricity.

Your father praised her. He knew the seed would take shape in a way he couldn't quite imagine, for it would combine with your mother's DNA and form a unique immortal being. 96 percent biological. 4 percent ethereal.

You were conceived during a nervous conversation, and you came out nervous and overflowing with things to say. Years later, it was your nervousness that caused you to lose your balance and fall.

But take heart, stray traveler. Yours is a gift beyond words. Your father gave you that which he himself received from his father—an ethereal core. Eternal. Indescribable. It stores your essence, your totality. It...you...will pass on from body to body, life to life, and grow. You'll wander through the universe and become what you're meant to be. If my guess is correct, you'll continue to speak and sing and shine your unique brilliance. Perhaps your existence will become a great story—the story of IL.

You need nothing but the spark.

I'm here only to convince you that death is nothing to fear. If you could hear me, you might ask why you can't speak like you once did. I would tell you that you haven't yet let go of that which you are speaking through. But it won't be long now. The final moment has come.

IL

I...inhale...insecure. Intuition invokes inimitable Logos. I...inhale...inexpert in inextricable...liquefaction? Liquidating...illogical logograms...latitude. Longitude. Lengthening. Loosening.

I'm...

I...

I...

I.......................

The Old One

Welcome to eternity, little spark.