Chapter Text
Eight words rang clear on the Day of Silence against the backdrop of a fruitful year. Amidst the din of the crotalum, woven through the hordes of mute crowds, thus did the honourable Sophos Nous proclaim to His Highness:
For all knowledge one must pay equal price.
This was the first and last lesson Sophos Nous ever imparted unto the seventh prince of Metis before THEY left: as quietly as the noiseless festival-goers. Perhaps it would be the only lesson ever recorded to grace the Kingdom of Metis from the Sophos: a feeble mark to acknowledge the extraordinary scholar the seventh prince was. Though, the arrogant youth knew this was anything but; such an obvious deduction was no morsel of wisdom, but a reproachable grain of sophistry that any fool could have mimed. Mimed, because the Day’s hallowed silence had been broken for the first time since its inception, and perhaps that was the biggest insult of them all.
In his wrought tower, the youngest prince of Elation’s lineage seethed. For the weeks following that sacreligious day, he barely ate, barely breathed: barely lived. From the moment of his birth to this summer, his efforts to earn the venerable Sophos’ acknowledgement had not borne fruit—and now, they probably never would.
His damson locks tangled in his fingers as he pored over those eight words. They ripped, twisting and breaking and splitting in his desperate grasp. Those records were all he had left of the learnéd being: a measly report detailing the teacher’s crime, summarised in a single paragraph in the battered codex that was unceremoniously dumped on his desk at his request.
If he knew anything about his Sophos, it was that nothing could ever be taken at face value with THEM. Twined in all the manuscripts THEY had written—which Veritas Ratio Metis had reverently studied, every single one—were the buds of dialetheism and bivalence, threading and looping against each other like two snakes on a caduceus.
Had he missed something?
Deconstructing the sentence literally, the price of knowledge was time and dedication. Nothing came from nothing; obviously knowledge was gained only through cogitation and learning. In less abstract terms, the hippocampus was a finite space and minute neuron connections were lost with each new wisdom gained. Though, such an axiomatic method of interpretation was sure to be fallible.
Thus, his deft fingers wasted no time in penning a new heading: warning. Presumably, Nous wouldn’t be so kind as to bestow a lesson on the youth: not even out of pity for the erudite young mind who followed THEM around just for a glimpse into THEIR insights. No, Nous wouldn’t have spared him a glance. Therefore, it was not a teaching at all, but rather a last, merciful warning.
Knowledge was burden. He knew this, Nous knew this—any respectable scholar in Metis knew that ignorance was more oft than not bliss, especially when it came to divinity and existentialism. This much, too, was a salient interpretation of these words. Don’t study things you aren’t ready for. The prince scoffed. A waddling baby knew as much—taking first steps primarily, before learning to run.
Unless… Upon examining the wording, there was a critical sign in its structure. Four words on one side, four on the other—equilibrium. Life on one side, and certain death on the other. His breathing came in neurotic waves as his pen struggled to keep up with his intuition. It may have been foolish to follow his gut, but there was just something about how the lexicon flowed that dried his mouth and made his tongue leaden with foreboding.
What is it?
Seraphic beams of light cast their dappled rays on the gleaming equipment: bronze astrological instruments, beakers and shining ocular lenses; stacks upon stacks of manuscripts and codices, on everything from law to philosophy to anatomy; and the precariously balanced alembic and crucible in the corner, concealed by a large sheet for supposedly warding off dust.
The gaze of cerise lingered briefly on the alchemical tools.
Equivalent exchange.
With a sigh so heavy it brought his youthful appearance into question, he buried his aggravated face in his trembling hands. Neither blessing or lesson was shrouded by the phrase; rather, Nous had lent him an equivocation as a final misrespect. One hint of information, and the other a warning.
Translated, he gleaned that the Sophos referred to the rumours surrounding Aha and THEIR progeny. Archon basileus—the foolish sovereign and ever-so-foolish descendants. Though the capricious Aha had outlawed the ages-old practice of alchemy and other similar disciplines decades ago, there was hearsay in the stone-paved streets that the imperial family dabbled in activities now heretical to keep control over the populace. Whether it be through transmuting the dissidents to lustrous gold sculptures, or turning insurgents to mindless jesters through drugs and other disciplines, it was clear that Aha held keen interest in monopolising knowledge and ruling with an iron fist.
Or, at least, that’s what Veritas heard through the reticent walls of his tower. There was no viable method of testing the theory: not when the seventh prince held minimal sway over politics in the gilt palace.
This was the bitter fruit Nous had broken the sacred silence for.
You are no match for your family, THEIR eye seemed to lament.
This knowledge is far too heavy for you, boy, THEIR mouth appeared to rebuke.
All these years, and you have still not broken from the alabaster coating of a fool, THEIR departure concluded.
The prince had long surpassed the rest of his peers in mind and body alike, yet with this realisation he was a mere child once more: just another bastard of the lineage. Not to be taken seriously.
His fate was sealed the moment he could taste choleric resentment on his tongue, followed shortly by spite: for spite is the desire to thwart. The path he instinctually set out on—to seek knowledge about the abuses of wisdom in the palace—was one that would only end in despair.
But the blame could not solely be attributed to him—for despite his prideful erudition, he was no prophet. A clever mind like his had not yet tasted scholastic defeat yet, begetting carelessness. And to provoke an arrogant, clever, careless youth with no real world experience—yes, provoke, for that is what the esteemed Sophos did—was sure to birth a calamity.
Indeed, the hubris of the seventh prince led to tragedy borne of his own making; yet, the fault also rested with another.
This was the ‘price’.
Two people, bound in impossible balance.
Eight words, foretelling only disaster.
This was ‘equivalent exchange’.
One clever prince, seeking a knowledge far too cataclysmic to bear.
This was the heresy known as ‘alchemy’.
On that Day of Silence, the Moirai assigned a fate threaded bloody: all for the modest cost of one lonely prince’s grief.
. ⁺ ✦
“Oh dear,” the maiden crooned. “It looks like he’s made up his mind.”
The distaff held in HER graceful palms perpetually dripped crimson, though not a single drop bled into the spindle as SHE wove fate: pain, ecstasy, hopelessness, delight.
“Just like the rest of them,” the matron uttered. “He is a fool.”
Unceasingly, HER rod measured out the new life-threads. SHE impersonally gazed at every strand—quantifying and fairly allotting time. Time, the most precious commodity of anything and anyone.
The hag remained silent, for HER glinting scissors expressed HER thoughts. Snip. A thread was cut. Snip. A life was lost. Snip. Yet another soul crossed in the afterworld.
But there was one sanguine allotment of fate that wouldn’t be cut with HER shears. Many a mortal wished for such a boon: bartering with the divine for an extension of their pathetic lives. That was a paradox SHE witnessed time and time again: humans wishing to prolong their misery through staying awake in the raging current of the universe. Death was the true alleviation of suffering—this was the one mercy SHE could afford man and their kind.
Living and the futile struggle was all humanity had known; SHE understood, in HER omnipotent way, how this stagnancy was a comfort for the lost souls.
Though, SHE mused, staying alive would not do this particular prince any good. For what gift is evading death, when one cannot truly live?
“It would have been better for him to live under the yoke of his family and die as all mortals should.” The crone’s withered voice was dry from disuse. Under HER shroud, neither the mother nor the youth could see the aged path of tears that meandered down HER wrinkled face—for with age came sentiments, and the Moirai were the oldest of all in the cradle of the universe.
“Atropos.” It was the maiden who finally replied. “Do you feel sorry for the boy?”
Snip. Another marked fate concluded—though not abruptly, for it had been ordained since the moment of their birth.
“No,” the beldame answered. “The little prince was warned by a being far wiser than he, taking it only as affront.”
For the first time in centuries, HER shears ceased their steady rhythm.
“Should I feel sorry for the hart that approaches the arrow out of its own volition?”
. ⁺ ✦