Chapter Text
As the dying sun fell upon those colossal spires—their lifeless and pearlesque peaks brilliantly shining—its splendor blossomed like the emissions of the ill or the viscera of a lesion. But, like the fate of man, it was impossible to know how the light would go. Perhaps the rays would run across the barely warped land, diving into the lakes and rivers, drowning amidst innumerable cells of shimmering diamond? Perhaps the rays would break away and run to the horizon, diving into the dry brush and forests? Through the leaves, eviscerated glow would shine upon the grass like raindrops dripping through the canopy. But were they the exceptions—the bleeding sun's lay ought to hold no sway. The rays should have soaked the face of those impaling mountains, revealing the treacherous ridges that comprised the highlands. Or did they truly spew across the Earth, covering all in the colors of blood and gold, offering the specters of warmth to the richest kings and poorest husbandmen?
As the dying sun tore itself away, its limp corpse fell down the mountainside, soon landing within that mountainous bosom. But, alas, so much was now lost; the sun's body, once healthy and endowed, was reduced to heaving, sinewy masses. Its shimmer, once lively and chaotic, was reduced to an ultimate, wholehearted breath. Its existence, once regal and omnipotent, was still acknowledged, its crown lain on the horizon for all to see, to show that it was. The woken life grew torpid, the sleeping life grew vivid, and the husbandman looked upon its ghostly visage. Realizing that dusk was soon, and its hand would soon usurp that celestial throne, he decided to return home. Removing his hoe from the pale, broken loam and leaning it back on his shoulder, he turned to the north.
It was instant, no time to see the dam shattering, releasing infinite streams of ivory and gold, each one embracing and twisting around the other, spiraling like the cosmos, filling every gap of the canvas with pitch paint. The husbandman could know nothing, his mind itself flooded with this empirical glory, the barest and most spurious thoughts caught.
It was then the glory spoke:
And why must you, dear child born of Heaven, sow fear in yourself when presented with God's Gabriel, doubtlessly the greatest and most sacrosanct honor it is to hear these words? Naught is the Lord stood for here and now: the advent of all things, the supreme among Heaven and Earth, and without the fetters that bind the Vastest Choir, the Inconquerable Throne. Absolute is the King stood for yonder and then: the heart of all things, simultaneously afore and anow and anon, the matrix whence love arises, and every perishing tide and gleaming dawn. Soothfast forevermore until fulfilled as per the All-Knowing, such a Godliness will be brought as this seraphic, yet lesser, choir, for these words are truly a portent necessity, you blind men!
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As the sun breached the window, its light illuminated well the earthen house. But though the sun warms men and beasts alike, it does not care for desires or wants. And this the Assyrian sleeping below yeasaid, believing the sun's presence to be far from a benediction.... Perhaps through sheer willpower he could endure the light's heralding. However, as the sun drew itself higher to its zenith, the rays found themselves crashing into his face. His brow and eyes scrunched up, expressing clear distaste, and he turned his body. The light now shone upon the side of his face, caressing burningly his cheeks to awaken him—it was too late. So rudely awoken, he sat up and stretched, letting out a large yawn all the while. After sitting there for a few moments—contemplating his failures to fall into rest earlier—he finally got out of bed.
However, just when he reached the doorway, he heard someone muttering—he froze! He knew everyone in his village and was sure that they would never hurt another. But it was not like this world was safe. A person may have hidden in his house to abduct him—maybe even kill him! Oh! Fearing for his life, he instinctually turned back—not even considering what to do about this threat—but rather than seeing a human, he saw something much... more... uncanny. Like a garden growing from a single pot, innumerable tentacles of glowing white herbs emerged from a central and pulsating—but perfectly smooth—sphere. Each of these tentacles seemed to possess an ego of its own: some were standing erect while others were whipping incessantly around. As they moved, they ignored the tangibility of the walls, but not of their fellow extensions. Some became tangled, creating a picture akin to the morning's hair, while some slid past each other.
Nevertheless, the tentacles continued their writhes and sways as the entity spoke unimpeded:
Thus, stand not naive and beware this harbinger, perhaps playing at first as a spark of chaos and anomia, the fall of your idolic rulers by your bleeding hands, or as God's Raphael, donning you light. He—child beloved verily by God, let not your arrogance arise like the morning flower, nor fall like the morning star—the Son, has once more been born of Humanity, now lively and grown. Even though not as the Jesus of Nazareth, not as the Messiah all men know—he speaks unheard words with a figure unremarked by man—the Son walks along this known dust. Oh, sleeping upon the roughest earth, men, their treasuries emptied in their evident devotions, loathe him; might he have spoken prophetic words, but the people naysay God's eternal bliss!
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Upon his lover's death, the Lotharingian could not bear to see his home any longer. But if it be for the sake of his daughter, the only thing he had left of her, he would reside in that hell until he tore the flesh from his nerves. He would stay there until his heart burst, crimson bathing his organs. He would live there until his body was overwhelmed by tumors, swelling as does the loaf. But his daughter would never let that happen—O Celeste, is she not so beautiful? When she saw her father's degradations, she had to do something. His skin was pallid yet discolored. He stopped eating, only sipping on the barest water. His arms, once capable and rugged, now were of a man feeble and broken.
After no convincing at all, he agreed to leave his home behind—he would do anything for her. That day, when the tricenarian stepped out of his lifelong town, it felt like a weight was lifted off his chest. He could finally breathe without aching for rest. He could enjoy the sight of the daisies without remembering that joyless day. And he could at last mourn without that all–encompassing guilt. Perhaps it was foolishness or a longing for something more, but he turned back to say goodbye. Or maybe he was still hesitant to leave? Nevertheless, it was then he saw the town contort. The buildings slimmed and spiraled into helical ivy, each extending from the coagulating and shining ground. From these merging and distorted masses emanated an ivory light that persuaded any onlooker of their powers.
It persuaded anyone of its loyalties to the absolute as it gave its declaration:
Devotions heartened, unending praises, and man's faith ultimately futile, no one, not even God's Azrael, knows that his flesh and sinews were borne upon his death, and he wept as did the Babe. Offal reborn upon that day, he has watched over his myriad subjects, never being known; his existence ordered on a day likewise unknown, he has walked for a millennium, his histories lost to ashes. Never have the evil looked upon him with a scowl of derision, nor the good with a loving smile, nor have they received the love inundating his existence like seas flooding a dish. Truly, of all and every life, be they the most broken pauper or the kindest king, or the lowliest hound or the deadliest erne, he deplores the most those wicked affronts of joyful beatitude!
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The Coptic merchant spoke well of his fabrics. Perhaps he was being humble? Perhaps he was truly being honest? Or perhaps he was a deceptor? In any case, no one had yet bought anything that sunlit and fair day. After the last group walked by without even blinking at his advertisements, he felt defeated. The past week had been so exceptionally slow, and though there were still enough customers, it was still rather stressful. Truly, what was there to prevent a potential loss of revenue? "Heh..." he let out a breath of self-pity at his desperate thoughts—but he knew he could not just give up. If he gave up, he would certainly fall destitute. Thus, he clenched his buttocks and prepared himself, conviction blazing in his eyes. Looking back out into the alley for some potential customers... he saw it.
As its argent veil radiated with an unfathomable sacrosanctity, the eldritch one gave its oration:
Dear child, do not fear—all, even those as nefarious as he who once shone like the Dawn itself, bearing light as the Son will, even brighter than God's Uriel, will be absolved as the innocent. Offering the most blissful salvation to the virtuous and sinful alike, he will, and never will his body or heart be strained as yours would be, for he has borne the weight of a many nefariosities. Nary a man, woman, child, died, nor unborn will be free from the Son's wrath; he will—well knows that saccharine child blest by his just smile—cleanse and salve and implore all. Tyrants, conspirators, ravagers, and the sinful bewasted, however greedy or blinded by lust they are, he will save alike from those primeval evils, for their being is the root of his own being!
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As the Visigothic shepherd looked over his herd, he too noticed something... strange. One of the sheep looked quite different. Peering to the odd-looking animal, he too saw it. He saw that eldritch messenger of the King of Kings. Its solar visage writhed with an activity parallel to the most agitated storms; despite its clear bestial tendencies, it held a certain form of refinement that spoke volumes of its intellect.
And that was undeniable as it concluded its message:
Soon shall he reveal himself if humanity changes his deigns. Ending his secrecy requires humanity to understand itself. Despite the dreams of men, women, and children, the Son fears. Under the surface, humanity pleads not for his presence alone but the benefaction from it. Courtesy, love, and faith are all a veil; humanity wants the Parousia for its sake alone. Everyone calls for his coming, not for it alone but for his graces and salvation. He sees this and cannot let himself offer salvation to the unwanting. In the end, there is one path humanity can take to incline him: Mourn for yourselves, realize your inner wants, and pray for his presence and his presence alone.
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Alongside the drips of the morning dew and the occasional fall of an acorn, there sounded the constant rumble of the footsteps of men and horses alike. Alongside the psithurisms of the oak forest and the murmurs of the creeks, the carriages' wheels rolled against the rocky ground, their aches resounding. The doves chirruped, the squirrels squeaked, and the deer bleated. Yet humanity—seemingly the most vocal of all animals—was uttering nary a sound. This created an ambience of awkwardness among the caravan traveling through the French forest. While some of them were surely fine with the silence, savoring the sounds of the wilderness, others were equally uncomfortable with the reality of this silent awkwardness, derived from their unfamiliarity.
That was until one of them just had to ruin everything, literally. "So," a younger traveler, looking to be in his 15th year, began as a few looked over, "have ye guys... uh... heard about the Revelations?" "Who hasn't!?" An elderly traveler yelled back, clearly astounded by the question and by the imbecility he thought of it. "Did thou even think about it before asking!? There've been over 700—at least one per day! Of course everyone's heard about them!" As his tirade reverberated through the forest, everyone asynchronously stopped walking, either shocked or interested by the scene before them. Even the carriages stopped, their drivers ordering the horses to a halt.
"Hey, Estienne, please calm down." A similarly elder traveler came to the youngster's aid, calming down... his friend? It seemed the case with the knowledge of Estienne's name and their histories as he sincerely apologized, "Sorry 'bout him. He's just..." he briefly turned to his friend, then back to the boy with a more assured stare. "His son was martyred after... receiving a Revelation." He was careful in choosing the antepenultimate word, perhaps as to not accuse his son of any illegitimacy.
"O-Oh—!" The boy immediately explored an expression of shame, looking down at his boots and spouting out an urgent apology: "I-I'm so s-sorry for saying such a rude—!" "Don't apologize," Estienne adroitly retorted. "Sure, it was a foolish question," a few looked oddly at him, "but thou just wanted to get rid of the silence. And also," he had a hint of growing somberness in his eyes, "I doubt my son would want anyone to be quiet about the Revelations... or his death." The boy had since raised his head, but was still not looking Estienne in the eyes nor saying aught. Though Estienne did notice that his mouth was limply moving. "If thou want to ask something, thou can. I'm not mad at thee."
With his approval, the boy inquired, still averting his eyes, "I just... wanted to ask why was thy son killed? It seems he was killed because he received a Revelation, but why would that lead to anyone's death? Should it not have been the opposite!? Should they not have heeded his words and given him trust!?" Estienne was a little surprised at his increase in volume, raising his brow in impression but smiling thus. "Th'know, thou remind me of my son—just younger. He was truly an optimist, trusting in kindness and the willingness of men to listen to others." As he spoke of his son, he looked to be recollecting the fond memories he had of him, a smile finding its way onto his face—it immediately vanished. "And that's what got him killed..." a tinge of self-reproach manifested, "but our hopes also led the way to his death. Well, I guess I'll tell the story: when he first received the Revelation just over a year and a half ago—if I remember correctly—our family was ecstatic and threw him a feast in his honor."
Everyone stayed silent, and those shocked grew more intrigued as Estienne recounted those tides of yore. "The next day, we went to the chapel to tell the pastor the good news. At first, he was just as excited as our family. He was a normally stoic man, but he had the most joyous smile on his face. As my son told him what was revealed, however, the pastor grew less happy and more—to put it simply—agitated. It was obvious on his face, but he didn't say much, just told us to leave." Distinct from that nostalgic or enervated expression he had before, his face grew despairing. "We obliged, and that was the mistake. Everything was alright for a week or so...." A shadow descended upon his face as he looked to the dirt—a place where he thought himself to belong, "To be honest, I don't really know how long—every time I think about then, I just see his... distraught face." Tears began sprouting in his eyes, quickly putting a hand over them. "But one night, while our family was supping, we heard a knock—
"They were soldiers! They had come for my son under a charge of heresy! I tried to stop them, but everyone else, my boy included, stopped me..." he paused for a few moments, letting his emerging tears fade. His friend laid a hand on his shoulder, and though Estienne gave a smile, his somber look never did fade. "I mean... they were right. I would've been killed for obstructing official business. And in the end, he was taken away... that wasn't the worst part. His face... there was so much fear and timidity in it, looking just as a child fearing the unknown." He gulped, clearly not fond of recalling the memories. "After they were gone, I immediately went to the chapel, wondering if the pastor knew anything—he did! He was the one who ordered the charge! That damned devil!" Estienne swore against the man, damning his blood.
Yet, he could not help but fall to sadness once more. "On that day, I didn't react so violently. I was... just... so confused. Though my memories dilapidated, I remember demanding of the pastor why he would do it. I didn't think my son did something worth such a charge—why would it have been the Revelation? Maybe the pastor just overreacted. But..." Estienne let out a sigh of hopelessness, almost as if he was recreating the scene. "No—he truly believed that my son was a liar; he believed that my son was deceiving all of us with his words.... That was the last time I ever saw my son. I never received a notice of what happened to him, nor did I get back his stuff. I..." the words viciously fought their way back into his throat, "can... only assume that he was... executed. He was one of the first to receive a Revelation. Ever since then, I've wondered... if he had received it later—a month later maybe—would they have accepted his words?"
To this story, the caravan had myriad emotions swirling throughout. Some were infuriated by the state's actions, while others mourned for a father's loss. Estienne's friend knew of this tragic story, consistently ensuring Estienne was well as he told of the events. Even the horses seemed to realize the suffering of this man. The quindenarian, however, still had an unanswered question. Too seeing the emotions around him, he was hesitant but, regarding Estienne's prior approval of his question, still asked, "I-I'm sorry if this may seem obtrusive," he now looked into Estienne's eyes, he having turned at the boy's voice, "but what exactly are the Revelations? More specifically, what has been revealed in them?"
It was silent for a few moments, only broken by the vocalizations of the birds and the bees, until, Ohhhhhhhhh....
They had assumed he spoke to rid the caravan of the awkwardness—but it was that he did not know wholly what the Revelations were. Well, maybe the former was also a reason, and he was just butchering two avians with one lapidary strike. In any case, answering his call, another traveler a little older than him, but not as old as Estienne, walked up. "I can tell thee what they are, but first, the name's Guarin. And thine is...?" Guarin was inquiringly, yet casually, pointing to the kid as he asked. "Oh, my name's Jehan." While some may have found such a display offensive, his exuberance spoke another story.
As he replied, Jehan likewise smiled at the brash but still quite kind nature of the older fellow. He was also glad to get away from the embarrassment of the caravan's collective surprise. "'Jehan,' cool..." Guarin nodded as he repeated the name. "So," he began walking, signaling for Jehan to follow. This led the rest of the caravan to continue on their journey. "The Revelations are a series of, well, revelations that have been happening daily for the past year. Specifically, the first one apparently happened on the first day of the millennium, so we're actually nearing the second anniversary. Furthermore, it's important to note that the only common factor between the people who received a Revelation is their faith in Christ. It doesn't depend on a person's location or... seeming heresies." Estienne gave a slight smile as Guarin continued.
"And as thou may have figured out, many have believed them to be hoaxes. I do believe that some are legitimate, though there are doubtlessly some deceptions. I have three main arguments for this. Firstly, they are far too numerous and disconnected to just be simple hysteria. Secondly, they were happening even before the idea of them being connected was made. So, a person early on would have little reason to falsely claim their Revelation beyond a hope of guile. But a person later on—with so many other Revelations being known—may create a false claim because it would seem rather legitimate." Guarin looked at Jehan to ensure he was still understanding, which it seemed he was. "Thirdly, while details are often inconsistent between Revelations, there is one consistent claim that is in the vast majority, which is the one I believe. Then again," he scratched his cheek while admitting, "that inconsistency is why so many people see them as hoaxes.
"In the consistent claim, the people say to have seen a sphere of pure white light, uncountably many pylons—or tentacles because they were flexible—coming out of it. While calling it 'divine,' many also speak of it as being 'incomprehensible' or 'of nightmares.' The entity then spoke to them, revealing that it was the Archangel Gabriel bringing a message for humanity: the Second Coming has happened. However, it was actually just after Jesus was crucified, and since then he's been watching over the world. Gabriel then adds that though the Son so deeply loves all people, loathes evil, and wants to give everyone salvation, he cannot bring himself to. His reason is that humanity doesn't want his presence but the benefits from it. Thus, if humanity wants the Parousia, they need to look in themselves and begin seeking the Son's presence itself. Gabriel says when that happens, he shall offer salvation to everyone: the good, the evil, and even demons.
"While the Son has yet to reveal himself, Gabriel does give a brief description: a man grown and lively with a bronze face and azure eyes. And..." Guarin thought for a moment before acquiescing. "Yeah, that's a fair summary of the most common revelation." Some nodded in agreement to Guarin's story, while others—Jehan included—looked on interested and thankful, never having heard the full story. Contrariwise, "Hey... Estienne?" They all turned to the name, stopping at the sight. Rather than an intrigue or thankfulness, Estienne felt an utter anguish forcing his tears to flow. As he wept against the tree, his arms taking the full brunt of the bark, his friend worriedly and softly patted his back. Yet, under the oppression of their stares and unsaid questions, he reluctantly muttered through his tears, "That was..." he swallowed, "the exact story my son told."
"Ahh...." Guarin looked truly ashamed, his visage lackluster and lips bent. "I'm... sorry," Estienne pulled his head away from the tree, "for say—" "Nay! Do not say that!" That umbrage clear in his expression was dampened by the ending tears that flowed down his face and to his damp collar. He continued yelling as he aggressively scrubbed the wetness off his face, "This is not thy sin! This is the result of that pastor's works! Thou needn't feel guilty about any melancholy I feel—it is that pastor's fault!" He walked off, angrily muttering all the while, "If thou truly feel sorry, then butcher him!" The rest of the caravan awkwardly followed him—but it was now a comfortable and vocal awkwardness.
As the words and derisions of humanity flowed through and around the foliage made in twain by the forest's path, formed by decades of previous travelers, the inhuman reacting in manifold ways. The insects could not have cared less, though there were few in this autumnal forest. The birds took their leave, flying to the skies and tallest trees. And the fauna looked up and fled, spooked by this sudden uptake of noise. However, there was one that did not react so predictably. Lain against a large oak tree, out of the caravan's sight, there was a human. He seemed to be resting when the caravan went by, though he did not make any movements or reactions to their noises.
It was only when the caravan was long gone that he proved not dead. Without any awakening, he opened his eyes, revealing gray irides reflecting the dreary sky, both in color and emotion. He simultaneously got up, walking directly away from the path, deeper into the wood. As he walked, dry leaves and branches constantly crunched beneath his feet, leaving that as the only sound he made. Nothing else, be it his breath, heartbeat, or pulse, could be heard from him. Ahead of him, a rabbit froze. It did not even sniff or twitch while it stared at the man. It seemed... confused, petrified, and—
Squelch!
As the man walked towards the rabbit, it looked as if neither acknowledged the other. The man did not even consider the rabbit's existence, while the rabbit did not understand what it was looking at. His eyes still betrayed that confusion even after death. As the man walked past the bloody pile of gore, the rabbit's viscera dropped from his boots with a plop, and blood poured from the edges in streams. The leaves and soil between the two were stained a deep crimson, footprints showing his path. Behind him, the rabbit's beige hide was torn beyond repair, popped like a balloon. As he left, the forest's scavengers and buzzing flies came out and feasted upon the carnage.
But this soon became irrelevant when the forest was no longer in sight. The man now stood atop a cliff, just before the ledge. Behind him, there existed no forest, but a steep, mountainous wall. The wind crashed down from the mountain's peak, playing with the slope's lushness and the man's fine hair. Behind him, there were two footprints of blood-soaked grass; a few tansies once bright yellow were dyed sanguine. Despite the coolness of the wind and the breathtaking scenery past the cliff—adorned with sparkling lakes and rivers and towering pines—the man bespoke neither joy, admiration, nor serenity. Rather, his once-empty countenance was overflowing with hatred and rancor. He bared his teeth—his jaws holding inhuman pressure—and his brow scrunched in utter indignation. More like a hound, his eyes dilated and his grasping hands twitched.
He took a deep breath, his maw hitching in eagerness, and roared to the heavens, "Ahhhhhhhh!" From all the trees that could be seen, birds flew in fear. The waters slowed, their shimmers dulling. Even the winds seemed to fear this man's paroxysmic ire, ceasing the world's breath. Despite these reactions, this was far too unsatisfactory for him. Thus, he chose a new means to vent his irritation—his hands still knew not what to do, writhing in place as he spoke.
"Heed my words, thou bloodlusting wight: thou may not love. Thou hold nothing dear, be it thy children from whom thou take the greatest of gifts, or the world that thou wish to flood with the worst of evils. Thou are a worthless blight—a stain upon Heaven! Though endless, thou hold the shortness of life so great! Though almighty, thou hold weakness as a truth! Though loving, thou hold hatred and anger as blessings! And for that, I loathe thy wicked being! Bereded by the words of another mighty work, I speak of thy weakness to thine impish plots! Thou show no kindness to the weak! Thou belove the highest of kings—of whom thou are not!
"But if speaking in earnest is sinful, then I will be a King of Sin, unbound by the likes of thee! I will sate myself upon all of the sins of this world! I will greedily empty from the riches of the foul kings and broken eidola! I will shatter their boroughs and homes, thieving their fees and gifts! I will wrathfully strike down and slaughter those evildoers! Nay, I will have those kings and those worshipped look sorrowfully upon their works, heads pried by their thanes and brethren, as they are brought to nothing! I will listfully watch on as their fields, kingdoms, and dreams are brought to upheaval and lawlessness, their bodies broken! I will lust their tears and blood as they sob, begging for rest..." he bent his neck as he looked to the heavens, his blank face now devoid of ire. His countenance now looked so human and pathetic as he quietly whispered, "And... like... the... days... bygone...." His smile grew even more egregious than before—beloving eyes betrayed his feelings that his mocking voice did too: "They shall be baited with love, yet taken from it so, breaking their hearts and forever binding them by my fathom! In my fetters, I will break them down and shatter their wills, scorching their being until nothing yet is.
"I—the King of Sin—will slaughter those who slaughter, ending death by the evil! I will scorch those who scorch, ending downfall by the evil! I will murder those who murder, ending harm by the evil! I will cut down those who cut down, ending sadness by the evil! I will overwhelm all the evils of the world, naysaying them being! But do not dare to say that thou naysay them being! Do not dare to be a healand when thou took love from me! Thou let the true ones—those who helped me—throe and slumber in neverending aches! Thou let the kings and lords who break their folk and the kings and lords who end life thrive and sit upon their selds and riches while the unwell of every day lie back and rot!"
As the man's diatribe continued, the words of the unknown tongue sped up. To someone not listening intently, it would seem just a collection of meaningless sounds, bereft of context. But the raw emotion—be it rage, eagerness, or sorrow—emanating from him was enough to make anyone understand the feelings behind them. When he was finished, he continued looking to the sky, but his mouth was flat. With a neutral, yet determined, stare, he spoke to the heavens with a cadence of tranquility.
"Sitting back and letting thy horsemen speak words of lied righteousness and hearing thy seraphim sing lofes as a King of Kings, hear me: thou will not stop me. I will be the one to take this world from its evils and darkness. I, who have lost everything from the hands of those evildoers, will bring them to the grounds. With my hands, they will know true fear. With my hands, they will know sorrow. I care not if thine errand-ghosts sing of Parousia or if the Son once more has become: I will make my dreams true." At those final words, he threw himself off the cliff.
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As he opened his eyes, the brunet could clearly see the beautiful blue sky. He could see too the occasional plumose cloud as he felt the dead grass prick his bare body. But neither the sky he saw, the grass that pricked him, the asphodel whose scent wafted to him, the gentle gale whose murmurs spoke to him, nor the morning dew he tasted incited any reaction in him. The young man just continued lying there unperturbed. After a few minutes, he sat up and looked at the scene before him: a scorched city surrounded by a field of death. While a spark of recognition could be found in his eyes, he felt nothing.
"Hello."
The brunet turned to whence the voice came but saw himself, though there were a few glaring differences. The most noticeable was the lack of a head. Even uncannier, the wound revealing the neck's interior did not bleed, nor did the multitude of incisions and lacerations that littered the body. Held neatly in its lap was the missing head, cushioned by black trousers, torn in the same way as the body. The head looked past the arms holding it and faced the brunet with wide-open eyes. Despite not having vocal cords, it spoke with an entertained expression, "Creepy, huh?"
The brunet did not say anything as they looked into each other's eyes. "Hmm?" The head raised an eyebrow, confused at his actions, but soon it realized why. "Oh, the eyes?" Physically, there was no difference between the two clones other than the wounds and clothes, except his normally brown eyes were replaced by an unnamable color—it was no color of this world.
He nodded, his short brown hair swaying in the wind. "Thou are me, but not me." Like his unfeeling eyes, whatever he said was short and blunt. "Yeah," the head's originally enthused personality was now replaced by a seriosity. It seemed now more distant with the brunet mentioning his uniquity. "This is me." The brunet still confused tilted his head as he inquired further, "Do thou normally look like me? Or is that thy normal eye color? How do thou mean?"
"To the first—no. To the second—No. To the third—what thou see in these eyes is me." The brunet seemed satisfied with the answer and turned back to the burning town. Until nearly a hundred paces away from the town's edge, everything was dead. They sat just on the edge, a pace away from the bright green grasses and colorful flowers. After a few pleasing moments, the brunet began, "Are thou a god?"
"Yeah," the head replied reluctantly, "I guess thou could call me that..."