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The beauty of the world cannot be measured with manmade instruments or numerical systems; rather, it is measured with the heart and an easily fascinated mind. For what other could truly experience the falling leaves of autumn with their crisp and vivid colors? What shallow head could bother itself with the ambience of passionate red and orange, or the fading green beneath your feet as you walk down the lanes that  Zatatiu has given you to explore and pleasure yourself with? And what of the cold of winter? The deepest thinker would know that the winter is Her suffering, Her calming and dying around you, that when you touch the trees which shed their leaves, you will feel Her pain through your very essence. That is because those thinkers realize that we are not above or below Her; we are one in the same. And isn't that what made us so advanced? We understood life as it was given to us. Everyone had their place, and everyone used their mind to its full potential. There was no such word as 'slacker' or 'lazy' in our society. O, if only that bastard morality hadn't hindered us in our greatness.

It is hard to believe that one small idea can change the course of humanity, but it is so. Back then, I had no thoughts of the future, only the present. We lived day to day smelling flowers and watering other peoples' gardens, in a sense, for ours were always green. I will begin long before it happened, for I promise you that you will absorb the tragedy of the entire ordeal much better if you know what it was I had lost. Let me say this first, however: they tell people that every great man has a personal support; a neverending fuel that gives their work a purpose. I had that beyond imagination's capability, and it's the only reason I survived. I'll start by telling you about me:

My given name had been Sena detu Kiosc. The Kiosc family was a very powerful one in our empire, so, quite naturally, I was born into money. I shared life with one sibling who I rarely spoke to, named Dynnel. She was a very wild spirit and was hardly ever at home. She explored all areas of learning and spent a good portion of her time in studios or outside, painting with oils what she saw. She told me once, when we were much older, that she believed capturing the beauty of today was important for tomorrow. She said to me: "Sena, you know that even in a few moments that leaf will not be in that exact place. You could be so amazed by the simplicity and gentle balance of it against the grass. You could always place a leaf there just so, but it would be unnatural. You must remember what you have and let others experience it as well. It is important. It is essential."

Essential.

If only people understood that word more today.

My father was a part of the grand council that organized events and were in charge of technology and weaponry. He was the third most important member in a seven member group. My mother was a writer and recorded daily incidents as they happened, placing them in the city archives. The most important events were recorded specially, in natural crystals we found in the ground. That's another story entirely, but my mother made sure that the people in charge of enscribing the crystals with the messages did their work. My sister's foolish paintings turned out to be a wonderful thing in our city, for people decided they also wanted paintings of themselves and families or the interior of buildings. And myself? I was really a dreamer, but I spent most of my time writing and playing music. I loved to create stories in my head of things that people thought couldn't exist, though we all realized that it was only a matter of amazement, not of disbelief; everyone knew that anything could happen at any time. As I grew older, I was given money and gifts for my work. My greatest pieces were archived in the grand libraries. I wrote in every field I possibly could, today you would call them philosophy, mathematics, history, biology, fiction, and psychology.

For many years, everything worked efficiently. Everyone gave in some way to society; they always paid for their presence. But not long after I attained some sort of peace in my life, which I will speak of in a while, things began to change. It began with a war, and then twenty years of absolute silence. And then, out of nowhere, into our lives walked a stranger, a chosen woman from the east who painted our lives with divine words from her tongue.

Our civilization was very crowded to say the least. Even places that were almost abandoned at one time had grown to large numbers residence-wise. It was because people from other nations wanted to be a part of the wheel of perfection, this place that was like a material Utopia. They came from all directions that you could imagine. Some nations restricted their people from leaving, in the east particularly, a place that had once been very strong in resources, but many came for more reasons than just the abundance of supplies. Some came for religion, as well.

Oh, religion----what a pitiful thing you are now.

The religion was dubbed Syntana, an eastern word meaning Faith in Light. The head priestess was Synnove detia Laecena, as we called her. She came from the ocean, as if she were Aisu's own child. Her language was more simplistic than ours, so she always introduced herself in an equally simplistic manner: "Synnove Laecena," without an associative interjection, as we called it (I learned much later when I came across her written accounts that her name was originally Sunniva, but the fishing village that found her had localized her name). Everyone called her Priestess Synne, at any rate, or The Augur. It was most sad that, through all the faith they had in her, they did not listen to her when it was most important----when it was essential.

The religion encompassed some very reasonable views, which was why everyone, even in their difference, agreed on them:

+ Everything revolves around individual perception.

+ Faith is important, regardless of what it is.

+ Discrimination should not be practiced, for all things are dependant upon all other things for life.

+ Give to those in more need than yourself.

+ Be more beneficial than destructive.

+ Follow the Light.

The Light they spoke of was a figure, what today you could call an angel. This angel, ancient in all forms, was the first to be made. It was the basis upon which these people breathed and functioned. It was the reason the sun arose in the morning, and the moon followed at night. It was the reason learning and growth was possible. It was out of the goodness of the Creator that a piece of Itself was cast closer to the flesh to protect them and their Utopia.

You know him as Lucifer, and they betrayed him beyond what one could possibly fathom.

They shattered the sun beneath their feet, and this was the price of discord.

What housed this great religion were massive cathedrals (which were called Kethadrusi ['Ketha' meant sanctuary and the original suffix 'draya' meant holy or sacred. 'Us' denotes an object, 'i' denotes a plural.] ), built greatly out of eastern hands, for their architecture was more advanced than ours. They constructed elaborate domes and pillars with such perfection and detail that one might believe they were beneath the Light himself. At first it depicted such things as their achievements through this wonder, like learning and cooperating. But much later it began to depict the figure himself, and these radiant sanctuaries became polished prisons when they bestowed upon themself the power to know what He looked like, as if He would have any tangible form at all; as if everything had to be understood and acknowledged.

In this crumbling world, as I watched this paradise sink beneath me fast and hard, I had hands to hold me up. As I mentioned before, every great man has personal support. Mine was a celestial wonder in disguise, born into the poorest slums of Kethadria (in this sense, 'ia' denoted a place rather than an object), our 'heaven'. He experienced the hell beneath the mists that blinded everyone from our world's internal problems. He experienced poverty to its most extreme level, something that to the majority didn't exist.

Poverty? What the devil is poverty? Have an apple, son. Nevermind that, take three.

You can pretend as much as you want, but even heaven cannot be perfect, and he was living proof. When I was nineteen he came upon the steps of my grand home, seeking apprenticeship in writing. Parchment and ink was all he could afford out of his pocket, and he had heard that I was quite a teacher; I even fed the people I taught. Food was probably more promising than a job to him, I could tell by his thin stature. He looked very clean, but no one dressed this well could be so starved. I suspected that he had gone to the Grand Church to see Priestess Synne, and she had bathed him for his coming to impress me; perhaps I would feed him more if he looked of worth. I would have taken him in the blackest rags, though; it took me but one look to know he was gold wrapped in fine lace. He didn't need my teachings. He had no name to speak of, and so I called him Alegias. 'Beautiful one,' it meant, but I always called him Alexander in public (a Greek name, our neighboring society), because the former was our little secret.

He helped me organize my papers and would write for me if I was too busy to. I would verbally instruct him on what to put down, and he would flawlessly record everything to the letter. He said he hadn't ever attended a schooling of any sort (which then was held at the churches). He wrote better than even I, however, and so truthful as it was, sometimes I found it very difficult to believe. In exchange for a place to sleep and food to eat, he would run errands around the house and outside, like delivering my finished pieces to the appropriate authority or tidying up for important company. He gave me more than I could possibly have rewarded him, and so he was true efficiency--true perfection--in this deteriorating world. He took little and gave much and was the essence of what Kethadria and Syntana stood for.

Oh, yes, he was an angel.

Years passed, almost twenty years since Aiatse, the capital, had smashed down a stirring revolt in Freseau in the south. It was the first time anyone had seen the might of the capital's army in play--most weren't even aware that our city even had one. The Priestess had long since blessed and buried the bodies before the deterioration hit with its full impact. Five or six laws were passed every month, subtly limiting the freedom of the lower classes. Eventually, Alex could not go outside without my presence or he would be picked up and, of all barbaric things, sold. It happened that someone from another nation, of another religion, had made his way up the ranks into our highest positions of government--first chair in the council. He, even at that peak, had been placed one above my father, second in command, and as the council was a new idea (we had just emerged from an imperialistic society, but the royal blood had worn out at the death of the last emporer). My father could do nothing to reverse the falling with no check and balance system, aside from having the man killed (which was against our beliefs), so it was then that we all watched in horror as our lives collapsed around us. Slavery was introduced. Of course, it was not at all called that, because that would alert the higher powers--above their government, even. It was called volunteered serving, though their only other choice was prison--whipping and starving.

More years passed, and it only became worse.

The rush of immigrants into our lands, the presence of their difference in beliefs--this concept that developed called 'morality' and a supreme deity--the concentration on inane ideas like right and wrong were practiced. Now it was wrong for people to do non-material services to society in exchange for material things--they could not teach children and be fed in return. They had to do backbreaking labor for the nobility.

It was in these moments, reading over memos sent to me through our mailing system which was superior and fast to even today's, that Alex and I most connected in sympathy. I for him, and he for I. I held sympathy for him because these tasks were expected of him. And, though we knew I would never ask it of him, he did it anyway. Sometimes I would order him to stop and rest, and sometimes I would watch in sadness. His sympathy for me stemmed from the fact that I had to watch all of this, and I was a naturally caring person. I had to hear him being discriminated against every day, and he knew I did not like that.

They had passed laws like that books could only be sold in the national libraries, and then later, that they could not be sold at all. People were scared of their society dwindling, but they went about it the wrong way. They changed what they should have kept the same. The Prophetess warned them of this, but she and I would both be damned if anyone would listen to her at this point. They only saw her as an easterner. A wretch. A disease.

But she'd done so much good for them. . .

Another law they passed was that servants were not permitted to eat if someone else in the household was hungry--they must sacrifice their share. In seeing this, I immediately began giving extra food to my Alex, for he had become my only companion in this world. Everyone had disappeared. I'd heard of war in the distance. I heard that Dynnel had been put in jail for selling her paintings--graven images, they called them. I heard that someone planned to do away with my father's interfering, and of my mother I never knew. The last I spoke to her was several months before Alex appeared. Someone told me she had fallen ill and was bedridden. I never went to see her, however. Illness was a plague; it didn't exist before the migration of other nations into ours. I stopped my thoughts of visiting when I became close to Alex, for I didn't want to risk his health.

I spoke of deep things to him, things that I could not include in my writing. I told him about my childhood and how I'd dedicated my life to teaching. And he asked me the most beautiful thing that reassured for me why I named him what I had.

"Have you ever thought of love?" he asked curiously, in an almost day-dreaming fashion.

I couldn't answer. I really hadn't, I suppose. My love lay in Her gifts; the trees and air and water and birds singing. I enjoyed all seasons and all emotions. But I had never thought of love, not for another person--not for the degenerates in my paradise.

That wasn't long after he came, after I'd begun confiding in him. It wasn't that long before it happened, either, however.

I'll never forget what they did to him.

~~

I woke up particularly late on a Sunday. Alex had decided of his own accord that I was not sleeping enough, so he made no effort to rouse me that morning. He always got up early, even if I had him working late with me, setting type in a storage building outside for mass-printing of my new speeches (in my years alive, our inventive minds in the capital had figured out that if you carve patterns and press them in ink, you can put them on a surface and copy an entire page of writing. It took a very long time to arrange and connect the letters and a new system of writing had to be developed [they had to disconnect the symbols from eachother and make them more simplistic]). Several months before, I had taken up speaking in place of formal writing, because even our children had stopped caring about education--about reading. I could no longer reach them through my compilations of notes, so speech it was.

They had passed a law requiring that all public speeches be printed and sent to every government official. Ridiculous. Like any of them would read my mother's archives of events, let alone an entire speech on something that didn't particularly concern them. But, what was more ridiculous was this:  if your verbal presentation was even a word different than your written one, you would be arrested. Of course, this was just for scare. Like I said, none of them would waste their time reading something they could hear later on. But it stopped everyone from expressing themselves, because the idea of crime had not existed before, and it frightened them greatly. Everyone, that is, except for myself. There wasn't a damn thing they could do to me that would let me sit and watch them destroy what the Creator had made for them. Yes, this is what happens when man submits to arrogance. Before, the nation had functioned under the rules of the Creator, which were few the direct beliefs of Syntana; nothing more and nothing else. He had gifted them with angels to form unthinkable technology. Yet, now, they wanted more.

They wanted to be creators.

Like I'd trust my world in their filthy hands.

Well, as it was, I had awoken late. What motivated me to open my eyes was the smell of breakfast, hot and wonderful like always. I don't know where he learned to cook; even when I asked him about his life, I did not ask him that. I assumed for my own mental comfort that he was simply inclined toward cooking and had gotten ahold of my recipe books. He took that as a reasonable assumption.

He was in the other room, staring at a sheet of music for the denur--what today you would see as a piano-like instrument. There was a certain way he went about doing things, gracefully, beneath the streams of gold light that fell from the massive windows above him, broken into a million glimmering pieces when it touched his eyes; the perfect blue. This was much an eastern trait, those eyes, like The Prophetess whose were like oceans of wisdom. But his, even in their brightness, were deeper and sadder. Yet, he always seemed cheerful, and I supposed that sadness was just his calm nature. His hair was a northern trait, though; brilliant threads of pale gold lying just so on his head. I wouldn't move a single strand but to stroke it with my fingers. It would be like silk, I imagined.

I lay still in bed for several moments, watching as he pored thoughtfully over the measure. He placed a sheet of paper on the wooden stand and rested his fingers against the keys.

Gentle.

Smooth.

Cool.

They swam over the keys as if it were their purpose. Several months ago he had asked me to teach him to play, as if he needed any help beyond a few minor corrections. Kitka, a priest I'd met in travel, had written this piece. I promised him upon departure that I would put it to good use someday. And here we had it--Alex, the angel. The flawless.

Sometimes I could swear that he had wings.

~~

I don't know what it was. I don't know when I first noticed it. Perhaps it was when he asked me about love so very long before. Yes, perhaps then. A thought lingered in my mind after that day that I remember even now. And for a while, it went unspoken. But nothing lasts forever, especially silence.

And in this silence, I called him mine.

~~

I'd gotten out of bed and swept past my breakfast. He'd probably eaten his hours before so that he could get to work and have more free time. On my way over I grabbed a robe from a chair and wrapped it around myself, tying it to closure. After a second or so of standing still to listen to him (he played so very beautifully), I traced my way behind him.

"You didn't rest long enough," I murmered softly.

"What?" he asked calmly. He wasn't startled by my presence; he never was. A curious expression captured his face as he peered at the music.

"You only rested for two beats," I pointed out and leaned myself over behind him.

I placed my hands on his. Sometimes I'd live just for these moments. I guided his fingers beneath mine and rested for three beats, and filled the remainder of that and a new measure with softer keying than he had used. He smiled and tried again when I'd let go.

Ah, perfection.

I enjoyed my breakfast on the edge of the bed while he played, lulled by the wonderous music. It wasn't until he stood up that I realized he was wearing my favorite shirt, and only a shirt. He bent and placed the music in a drawer, then he floated toward me. His skin was without blemish and glowed like dew on grass in the morning, just faintly, a reflection of the sunlight against it. Again, I saw those wings, beautiful and faint, as if...

As if he were struggling to hide them.

From me?

I beckoned him closer and rested my hands on the sides of his thighs. He turned a soft pink color, either in acknowledgement of that touch (though, in our civilization, nakedness wasn't something to be shamed of; in fact, we only wore clothes to keep warm or stay cool during the seasons), or in the idea that he'd had to borrow one of my shirts. I never prodded far into his mind. I trusted him enough.

"I'm sorry. Tala got in my dresser. I'll have to sew mine. I hope you don't mind..." he said under his breath. Tala was my cat. She was very large, about mid-thigh in height, and white as snow.

No, I didn't. I didn't mind at all.

In fact, I thought the shirt looked better against his light hair that was a perfect contrast to mine, which made obsidian look like pearl.

To think of it now, he wouldn't have fit into my pants anyway, quite obviously, because I was a bit taller than he was, particularly at the legs. A shirt was fine, however. I didn't plan for him to go out today, for it was Sunday, and much like today's Sabbath, it was a day of no work for everyone. The poor were treated kindly and the rich as normal people, spoken to on the streets and invited to humble dinners. I always spent this day inside with Alex, laughing and painting or playing music or speaking of special things. He was, if he could be nothing more in this world, my best friend and my brother. I established this idea after it came time for him to leave, when he should have left because he had enough experience to work in almost any non-labor field he wanted to. But he didn't. He stayed, like a friend, or like a brother would. Sometimes I felt that wasn't enough, though. Sometimes I felt there was a deeper, buried connection that I couldn't uncover.

It drove me insane.

I started on this Sunday, because this day was a day that changed my life.

~~

Unexpected guests arrived in the evening. I had Alex hurry and get some clothing from another servant, washed and pressed, to wear for an hour or so until the company left, and to return them when he was finished. I myself pulled a black robe from a closet-like room next to the door and slipped it on as quickly as possible. Of course I cared very much for Alex and didn't wish to treat him any less than my own sibling, but I could be jailed for not treating him like a servant, and then what would he have? We could both survive that short while. So he did so, and I stalled the guests in the hall, at the table. I had Vhata, a female servant that didn't live in my home, but came promptly every day in the early morning and left in the late afternoon, serve them what you would today call tea, though it was made out of much better herbs that were better for the body (it was probably why nobody got sick until the immigration.) Two of the guests were from the counsel my father was on, and another was a woman who did some more obscure sort of work. Their business here was merely polite conversation, they implied. However, I knew it was to see if I was treating any servants better than I should. I was the person to land in jail, because I was outspoken and passionate about what I believed in. Of course, they'd get a reward for their deed.

But I could see through their lies. I could see through any lie.

I told Alex to make them a very brief meal and then begin on mending his clothing (he would actually go and read in his room, however, one of the books I had set there for him a while ago; there was no need to mend clothes, as I would buy him more the next day when shops were open again.) The guests left quietly after they'd finished their meals. Vhata washed the dishes.

Here is a point where I would like to explain something about the people who enscribe the crystals. It is done with an energy imprint which can only be read by people sensitive to energy. One of the gifts given unto our nation were these people who had such ability. They were not angels, but people who had unlocked at least seven tenths of their mental capacity; people who were born with this ability. They were called the Syntiani ('from the light'), and it was commonly believed that I was a Syntianae myself. Their most prominant feature were firey gold eyes, which I masked in myself. But my eyes were gold beneath for a different reason; not something they could possibly understand, of course. I accepted this, however, to avoid attracting more attention than necessary, and it was one reason that my writings and speeches were at all listened to. The Syntiani were considered blessings and to hold more knowledge than even prophets. But now, not even prophets were at all considered. No, the Syntiani had become caught in the middle of a great struggle:  part of the nation wanted them exterminated or thrown in prisons, part wanted them kept the same, and yet another part was exalting them as deities.

And the highest deity?

Syntu. And though Syntu was for very long referred to as such, 'second light' or 'Creator's light', the title for the Creator, 'Syn' ('light' in its most basic form), was becoming associated instead with his angel. And the Syntiani? They went from being gifts, to being the deity's children directly.

I knew that the women who had visited was involved with this secret religion being slowly leaked into the public. Her eyes spoke of betrayal. She, like they, believed that the Creator was not so powerful; that his right hand could do more for them, being closer to the Flesh. These were the people that did not attend our Trials, which was one day a year when the entire nation would gather together far and wide in the empire's very center to give thanks to the Creator and His Light for all of the good things they have been given. It was five hours of absolute silence--reflection and personal prayer. Some who believed music was a better form of prayer would join the great choirs inside of the Kethadrusi. But most sat on their knees beneath the sun and quieted their minds and spirits. That was how it always had been. But as I've said before, and I say from experience, not even heaven lasts forever.

There is always time for revaluta axtryena.

Rebellion.

I saw them out, but I didn't feel any less stressed when I finally made it up to my room by dark. Someone was waiting for me when I got there.