The Watcher and The Flame

Alright, my turn for a snippet of the book I'm writing.

Prologue
A sinister fire burns bright underneath the mantle in the library. Beyond the fire
sits a rigid leather chair, and underneath it, stretching to the far reaches of the room, an
old burgundy Turkish rug. In the middle of the room sits the podium, a timeless artifact,
where many a being had come to look upon the Book of Ages. It is the book with no
written words, only images that move underneath the pages, a script for those who wish
to know the untold secrets of the beyond. A naive seeker will see only his house and
family within those pages, while a wise man looking down into the depths of the
encyclopedia will see the greatest secrets of the universe unfolding before him. The Book of Ages is a mystery, a tool used by all who seek it, to see that which cannot be known through traditional means of study. For nothing in the Book of Ages is contained in any of the trillions upon trillions of books contained in the Great Library. The library itself, spans the diameter of the earth globe thrice over, and contains works of such beings only known in dreams. A dim glow from the fire shines upon the first few rows of books, and gives no clues as to the grandeur of the library.

A sigh is heard from the man sitting on his old leather penning chair. He is late
into his millions, a lifetime stretched behind him of old memories and wisdoms. He remembers well the dawning of many a new society, and as he sits, he closely watches
the dance of the salamanders as they burn on. He is a distraught man, holding the last
shard of an ancient prophecy only known by those more ancient to life than time itself.
His forehead furrows as he is filled with the consequence of his decision now.

For all must come to this, a decision that I must make, after years of careful
observance, it is in my hands. I have seen races of creations succeed and fail, the wheel of life turning on and on, more promising races created anew. Great decisions have been made, but none as great as this now that the prophecy falls into my hands, to keep or be destroyed.

The old man pulls himself to the edge of his chair, his feet barely touching the
floor. When standing he is only near to three feet tall, and to say he is a man is only to
say that his form in some ways resembles that of a man, for he is of an ancient race no
longer existing upon any known realm at the present time. The signature of his race is
the pursuit of knowledge, but as one knows, all knowledge is power and absolute power
corrupts absolutely. Kemplan was one such being, his head grown to the side of his
feeble body, and held by a strong and muscular neck bone. He stood now, pacing the
length of the mere small rug in the vastness of the Great Library.

In days of old he spent his time learning the great mysteries of the universe, and filled his giant head with the knowledge of every book in the library. There was not one question for which Kemplan would not have an answer, and this in some ways, made him an arrogant fool. To know too much is a curse, and therefore forcing his solitude in this Great Library, set here to answer the queries of those innate beings who sought out his counsel.


ooh more later!

Wow... this book sure sounds good. Will you be publishing once finished?

But from where he stood now, all the knowledge in the universe would not help him with this one decision. His tiny fingers trace along the edges of the parchment, a growing anxiety rising in his heart. His pace quickens as he analyzes the ancient images
upon the scroll. On one hand the certainty of universal peace and unity, on the other the certainty of death with no rebirth. For this prophecy put in motion could mean that creation itself hangs in the balance. He throws the parchment on the chair behind him
and in frustration buries his large head in his tiny hands. Such a decision is too much for me to make, for I am meant for observation, not for action, to dispense my knowledge to
those who seek it. But there is a reason as to why it fell to my hands, and not now in this moment can I show a weakness to do what I must.

He studied the parchment carefully, remembering the day when the papyrus like paper floated down from a high shelf in the Great Library. He had known not which book it had fallen out of, only that it had landed upon the Book of Ages, there in the center, the only page upon which was written, or in the case of the parchment, drawn. Kemplan’s vast knowledge allowed him to recall the story that the parchment told. It was an ancient story, a story not told by time’s current wise men of creation. The
story begins with the depictment of two archetypal entities, one is The Watcher, and the other is The Flame. Kemplan fixes his eyes on the detailed drawing of The Watcher in the parchment. He is adorning a large headdress, of gold, turquoise and red. At the top of the headdress lay three golden spheres, which are mirrored at the base of the elaborate design. In between the golden spheres are turquoise and red shapes that resemble tulips.

On either side a serpent like pattern emerges, filling in the space around the golden spheres. From the headdress four visible golden serpents hang, their large heads pointed up in attention. Around his forehead, a pivotal golden serpent wraps around his crown. From his neck a red and white striped scarf is called to the west in attention. He is wearing nothing on his upper body less an elaborately patterned shawl utilizing the same color scheme. His lower body shows a black dress held to his waist by a refined sash of red with golden dots following in a line down the rich material. On his lap sits a rather large pleated breech, the rich color of turquoise coloring the first fold, followed by a red fold, and then by a second turquoise fold. The Watcher is sitting in a black and gold throne, marked with a royal red on the back. His arm is propped up on the back of the throne and he is staring into the eyes of The Flame.

Kemplan sighs at the detailed image of The Watcher and turns his attention to The Flame. His heartbeat quickens as he studies the fine figure of the image. Her headdress is an elaborate double feather beginning with a golden sphere at the base. The feather itself is held up by nine small golden silhouettes of men. Around her crown she also adorns the golden serpent, a signature of her importance to the kingly watcher. Her scarf is golden in color and pulling its attention to the east. Her shawl is also an elaborate pattern of turquoise and red, though smaller than that shawl of The Watcher. She wears a simple black tunic, lined by red and gold squares. The tunic is open which plainly shows her legs. The Flame is kindly touching the shoulder of The Watcher, and holding in her hand a chalice of water. She is looking deep into the eyes of The Watcher, a slight smile on her face.

Beside The Flame an elaborate non traditional totem is seen. The top is a simple wheel elaborately decorated in the same design as The Watcher’s shawl. A golden beak of the bird hangs over the top of the wheel, pointing to the center. Below it is the traditional horizontal wings spanning out from either side of the totem. They are also decorated in the traditional pattern of The Watcher’s shawl. Below this the totem is non traditional, showcasing a small curved trapezoid followed by another larger curving trapezoid. The entire totem is held up by two black poles like an easel.
Once again Kemplan sighs, and looks upon the ancient script written above the totem. It is in a language he can hardly decipher, from a race he knows not. He feigns to read the ancient script and instead continues to gaze on the last and most important figure of the scroll. At the top of the parchment a golden sun reigns down on both The Watcher and The Flame, and stretching from the sun are twelve golden hands, mirroring the rays of the sun, two of which hold an ankh at the mouths of the archetypes.

The half man in his millions paces back towards his leather chair. His eyes move to the fire as he remembers the legend of The Watcher and The Flame. They say it happened millions of years before the reign of our creator now. That a civilization drastically different and more advanced than our own, had happened upon
these two archetypes, representatives of the same paradoxical prophecy I hold in my hands now, the entities and realms changed to suit their time. They say that they were the very sparks of life, the sparks that caused the universe to come into being. The greater parts of their existence was known to be a myth, for they were believed to be mere particles of dust, incapable of conscious thought or emotion. They believed that these beings, while capable of making life for others possible, were unable to sustain life for themselves. For one must create all, and since one cannot create oneself, this seemed the only logical explanation for their fate, a sacrifice of themselves for the lives of all the rest. This thought remained true for many eons, and soon the memory of their sacrificial creators was lost and forgotten, even to this advanced race of beings.

It was only 1000 years before the end of their civilization that they learned the truth. For two meaningless peasant lovers, made of similar flesh and bone, consummated their love under the same stars in the sky, and set forth in motion the very apocalypse that would take their civilization in whole. The events preceding their consummated love were disastrous. Claims of spontaneous weather, clouds forming over deserts; tsunami’s
reaching over five thousand feet. With the years the claims became more and more disastrous, babies being born dead in mass numbers, electromagnetic fields taking the lives of an entire city in their sleep. The populations succumbed to their mass hysteria, many committed suicide, and many ran in the streets hallucinating of things to be. The known realms turned to chaos and despair as the young lovers, now the incarnated
sparks of life, fought to control their misunderstood energy and power.

They were too young, too naïve and they did not understand enough about who they were. No, it was not their fault, the incarnate beings were only doing that which they felt was right, it was the creators of that civilization that failed, forgot to see the signs, forgot the ancient scrolls of time, it was their own fault their universe came crashing to an early end.

Those days that lead to their final end were gruesome, souls still alive were calling out for mercy and justice, watching the deaths of others occur beside them, one by one. There were little of the populations left, those who lived, lived alone, in solitude of
any other being, eating the raw flesh off the bones of their former loved ones. But by then the suns had expanded, the black hole had been formed, and they knew their final fate was death. This was after all the apocalypse; everything was being lead to its end. The story ends here for them, the realms pulled together into a cacophonic wasteland of energy and matter. The last of the entities to survive were the sparks, who at the close of the black hole, it is supposed, realized how they could have saved all..

Oh but there is more, for we were careful to heed the signs, and the ancients of the time passed left us simple clues to look upon so that we may not find the same fate. For this prophecy upon my hands says the same thing. The Watcher and The Flame, the two sparks of life signified by those, the keys at their mouths, the sun, the all of the universe shining down upon them, offering their hands to them. The words inscribed on the side in a language even I cannot comprehend, a mixture of ancient languages and words that do not make sense when strung together, but they are clues.

What kind of a man would I be should I destroy the last piece of evidence of their existence? To allow our civilization the chance to thrive and die upon its own will? An end, a final end, all things must come to that, and to cheat death is only to prolong that
same outcome. That is it then, burn the prophecy, then it will not be remembered, and it cannot be used to warn the populations of their imminent end. Should that fateful day come, after all these millions of years, I will have comfort in marking the coming of my final resting place.

Kemplan’s small legs lead him closer to the fire, parchment in hand, and the flames creating dancing shadows upon the papyrus. He stretches out his hand to hold the parchment over the flames, but something in him makes him halt. I too soon forget that I am not the only one who knows of this prophecy, for Methedras and Talon, more elder than myself do remember the oral legend. But I am the only one who holds the evidence that this fate is prophesied against us. Shall I let them be killed, and know not when the end shall come? If I burn this now, I know that Methedras and his spies shall be delayed in their search. Though, Talon’s eyes will also be delayed in finding them, forcing the possibility that the past shall repeat itself. If I do nothing, their eyes will come to look upon it soon, and war will break out, and I shall remain here, imprisoned upon my library, with no hope of an end to my madness. A sinister smile forms on the half man’s lips. This time I hold the fate of the universe in my very hands, and on this night, it shall be so, the universe, is fated. He drops the parchment into the fire and the cracking of the flames eat away the edges of the prophecy, finally devouring the passionate glances of The Watcher and The Flame.