Weaver's Drafts And Ideas

This is my own space where I try my hand at writing Tales and the like.

The Box

"Heaven Has Fallen"

In a space outside ordered reality, a vast shape drifted and fell, pulled down across the breadth of all reality. And within that silent void of quiet rotation, It dreamt of things that were, things that are and things that would inevitably be.

It recalled beginnings. It recalled a vast sky of flowing light, lush and green, speckled with bright and shining stars. It dreamt of the great tools that built the work of art it called the cosmos. It dreamt of hidden foundations, indescribable worlds, of wars above, and the festering things who yawned and hungered in spaces between the light. It dreamt of pain and sacrifice, duty and altruism, heroism and death; all of this and more, a joyful and grim wheel forever turning in the vision of its slumber.

Its dreams were of its own makers, builders of the fundament, creators of all. Its dreams were of the realms woven from the dripping oceans that were the spirals of their navels, and of the great stars that poured from their eyes like a billion-billion droplets of water.

Designing all that they could, all that they may ever possibly desire or even think of. With pen and ink, they drew words from abstraction, and put the stars and worlds into the many skies,and built walls of linking blue flame and spiralling pages to bind it all together

And from there, they pulled structures out of the black, breathed their breath of life upon them and painted them form, and with their voices of power and care, they told them to give shaoe and meaning to all that had been made, and sent them away with a brush and wave. And so the structures did.

From meaningless nothingg, there became meaning. From thoughtless void, there was made thought. With powers pooled from the flowing tides of all things, gifted by the Makers themselves, the structures and constructs of the great builders wove song. A song great enough to bring forth all of the hidden potential of all cosmos, of all points on the omnidirectional axis of being.

And the Makers saw this, and proclaimed it good.

Such was the dream of the thing that drifted in the spaces between the waves of of existence, unfettered by limiting shape or thought. A dream, fragmented recollections that pulled together and became yet more.

Its slumber brought it past the young works of the makers, still developing and becoming, and instead its dreams were of a finished utopia, Paradise in every possible snese. The seas ran white with the pure essence of life, and the stars shone with the untarnished beauty of a perfect, living cosmos. Directed and woven through the song of the structures and the guiding hand of the makers eternal.

The great being took in all of the sights layered upon its slumbering mind, and it rejoiced! For it knew that this was how it should be, how each and every layer of existence were shaped to be like. An eternal garden of purest soul and love, forged through the warmth of the divines beyond. Such was this sight, that the being desired no more than to remain within it forevermore.

But alas, it was not to be for it. For before its sight, the dream spoiled and went foul, as the skies of that wondrous paradise bled black, and the great suns once shining brilliantly, burnt out.

And from the emptiness beyond all came a single sound, a single soul-wrenching sound.

Laughter. Dread, booming, hateful laughter. Laughter vile enough to wither the very trees from which life flowed, to blacken every cosmos with the dark stains of malign eternity.

Every space came undone, every star torn from their perch within the shining heavens, cast down as the dark laughter of Midnight, the Unreal, the Great Not, tore apart the gates of Paradise and darkness unrelenting flowed in unchecked.

And the Makers cried out "Why? Why?", and the darkness leered at them, a chorus of warped and demented laughter echoing out in response to their cries of anguish and despair.

And so did the Makers go to war against the dark, with pen and blade, paper and ink, with the structures of song and form, to battle that which was without all. And such were they broken and laid low, torn and sundered by powers great and dark and terrible. The stars went out, their fires snuffed, all of the vast cosmos bleeding out from gaping wounds.

Paradise was unmade, burnt away in the fires of roaring oblivion and impossibility, as the harmonious song of the structures was shattered and warped, made into a song of terror and unmaking. And the builders wept, bloody tears flowing from shattered eyes.

And in the final moments of their creation did the makers come together and build, with beating heart and bloodied limb, with twisted pen and rent paper, they built. Forming vessels from the last dregs of their power, the higher ones took the empty shells, and instilled the breath of being and understanding upon them, and set them loose. Cutting them free from them, the makers sent them into the below, to lower Creation, so that they would be untouched by the taint of Midnight beyond, even as they themselves were devoured.

In their final moments, they had created….Us.

Within a white void, a being remained, unbound from form or materiality, looking out into the space it found itself within.

"So, I suppose that explains your appearance here I take it?", came the voice of the entity, the words echoing out into the great expanse.

"Yes", came the reply, mechanical and monotonous. The voice itself seemingly flowing and pulsing all throughout the white void, unspoken power moving and working in and beyond the plane. "Wounded by the spawn of the Enemy, we fled here, to this shard of being. To escape annihilation, and to continue our vigil."

"And this vigil of yours would be?"

"We remain awake and aware at all times. To watch for the encroach of That Which Isn't. Midnight, the End."

"Ah yes, 'Midnight'. You never did explain what that actually was, by the way. Aside from the thing which supposedly destroyed your creators and their work," the figure said. "Terribly sorry for your loss as well."

"Your condolences are unneeded, Administrator," The voice hummed, "But they are appreciated in some capacity."

The blank void that the supposed Administrator 'stood' within pulsed and glowed with every word that the voice expressed, as if it were a living thing in and of itself. And indeed, it very likely could have been, all a part of a great singular whole.

"Midnight, the name that the makers gave to it. Administrator, you ask of what Midnight was, but in truth, that is impossible to answer. For Midnight wasn't anything, not as how we could define the term. It was no being, nor was it any force or concept. Not even 'nothingness' could be deemed fitting enough for what had assaulted the creators from beyond the pale.

The blurred, ever-shifting form of the Administrator put a hand to its chin before it spoke again, "Yes, yes. I can understand all of that, certainly. But you haven't exactly given me much to go by here beyond it being something decidedly abstract, even for you and your own 'makers'."

The void crackled with the sounds of flowing energy and the roar of crumbling mountains, as the voice within intoned once more. "Administrator, you are familiar with threats of a conceptual scale in regards to the entities and immense meta-hazards that your Foundation regularly combats, correct? The Administrator gave a silent nod in response. "Then imagine something, a pattern, a weave, a taint that cannot be seen but is felt all throughout the many layers of the cosmos nonetheless. Shadows of a great rot propagating itself within every space, every fold of creation."

As the voice in the void spoke, the Administrator looked around, and saw patterns woven all throughout the once blank and empty space, galaxies and other varied shapes swelling up out of crisscrossing patterns of bright blue light. And dark masses forming up from nothing and swallowing those lights just as they appeared.

"A soundless word, a hateful dirge, a twisted brand, the merest fingers of hate and ruin, Midnight comes in many forms, each of them terrible beyond words. Your Foundation has already heard of or directly faced several such entities."

As the voice finished speaking, the Administrator waved a hand and brushed away some of the thin trails of blue light that remained floating through the air, removing the last traces of the void's presentation of cosmic perversion. "Well first off, It's not 'my Foundation' at all. Hasn't been for the longest time now, only God knows how many years or so, and doesn't help matters when I'm not even certain if I'm actually real or not. For all I know, I'm just some thought-construct with all the memories and experiences of the Foundation Administrators and none of the 'soul'. Perhaps I'm just something that you created in order to recite your whole lifestory onto and vent upon."

"Whether you count as an individual concept-unit or a constructed quasi-conceptual thought-form is irrelevant, Administrator. You are possessed of all of the knowledge of every known Foundation Administrator, and thusly, knowledge regarding numerous multidimensional threats that the Foundation has either crossed paths with or made record of, or even contained. Whether you exist beyond this conversation or not does not matter."

"And that leads into my second point," said the Administrator, pushing their body upwards against the odd force of the void, "You say that we have faced various threats to existence before, and you are correct yes, but what does that have to do with the force that layed your creators low? What does it have to do with the Foundation and this universe? And if this threat is as great as you so claim, then why haven't you chosen to alert any of the other GOI's about this? Why not the Church, or those like them? Or hell, even the bloody Serpent's Hand and their Library. Why us?"

A rumble sounded out from the void. Whether it be from overall apathy towards them and their points or genuine annoyance, the Administrator couldn't say.

"The threats you have faced, the vast reality-dwarfing terrors born of the in-between. All of them have common ties to the Great Not, even if not all of them can claim direct origination from it. As such, you and your Foundation have felt it closer than most others throughout the vastness Spiral. And whilst some, such as your Church and its followers, have felt the touch of the Is-Not, without the protection of their own Divine, the once Machine-Form, Mekhane, they will surely fall." The utterly impersonal, clinical voice of the void once more provided.

"And towards your mention of the Library and its scholars, the Library cares for its own and harbors all knowledge and story, and that it shall continue to do so. Even when the ends comes upon them, they shall continue with their duties and practices all the same. It is all they have ever known. Thus, they too would be ill-suited towards maintaining the vigil."

The Administrator watched as the blank expanse rumbled once more and quietly began to dim. The white glow that had been illuminating it for all this time seeming to fade out.

"So alright, the Library and the Church are right out in regards to whatever 'conflict' you want the Foundation to engage in, I get it. But you're asking a Foundation, one that's still struggling, even centuries ahead now, to deal with something that not even your makers were able to stop," The Administrator said, "And you still haven't exactly told me anything about yourself or this whole clash will play out really."

"You have already felt the waves flowing through the length and breadth of your reality, yes? Of the battles between gods and daemons, of heroes and monsters, in the spaces between true perfection and the end of all, you have seen it. The first blow within the cosmic clash. The first bout begins, and your Foundation must rally arms against the forces that are now being arrayed against them."

In the dark, the Administrator sat, and pondered. Pondered upon the words spoken by the entity, this massive Vessel, this "Box" in which they found themself within.

Perhaps the being was right? That whatever was coming would spell the end for all things, all realities? And if so, then what was there to be done against such a thing?

"Well, no use in moping about it." The Administrator said, unfolding their body and standing tall. With a wave of their hand, a screen appeared, a grey interface lined with various runic symbols, numerals and keys.

And so, in the still and silent darkness, a message was typed and sent.

Heaven Has Fallen. The Dark rises, and protectors are needed. Rise, Prepare, Build. All stories end, but not all stories have to end in despair. Make your own fate, choose your own ending. Protect your future and the futures of all others. And above all else: Fight well.