Ch. 1: Til Death Do Us Part

Dearest Vaeloria,
Your delicate beauty—
Oh… your undying form—
it glistens beneath the veil of glossblooms,
Unfaltered by feathered luminescence:
petal-light… and luminous.

Til death do us part,
foreseen—even through the sandy fog of Lustrae fireflies,
within the mirage-sickened Morrowmire—
where every desire takes shape as deception—
I still imagine you.
Always.
Forevermore.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Golden heartstrings—
woven into defiant flames.
An ache I can’t escape—
this compulsion,
this longing.

You are my light…
and my shadow.

Fateful religion.
Fateless.
Vile Vireth.

Of all who dwell
on this distant, spinning dot—
this pale orb
beneath foreign stars—
none shine like you.
None… in all of Vireth.

We are galaxies apart,
yet for years,
I’ve longed to take your hand
in the sacred rite of Veilbinding.
I would offer it freely—
a declaration of symbiotic love.
Gladly.

But they call me mad.
A prophet of delusion.
A vessel for fever-dreams.
I’m a monster to them.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

So cowardly.
They don’t understand it.
I have the power to see:
It’s the visions—
the ones I’ve whispered to you in secret.

What man
would become a martyr for lies?
At least…
you trusted me.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

That’s why I long—
to see you again.
To touch your face,
without fear.
But I am…
Ironically, just as cowardly.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

The Morrowmire is perilous.
The Lustrae sweat illusion—
sapphire bark flickering under Lustrae haze,
roots that coil around memory,
whispering lies through firefly teeth.

Trapped in ignorance.
In solitude.
In time.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

You have to believe me.
The underground tunnels you recommend—
they’re flooded…
with guards.
I’d be tortured.

To venture into the Morrowmire—
to reach Iverelle without a guide—
is to vanish.
To be hunted.
Killed.
Erased.

And yet—
despite it all—
I dream.

That we might escape to Caeloria,
the golden mirage of hope.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Vaeloria…
there is more.

She is pulling me under.
Waterboarding me with these dense thoughts.
Visions.

This humanoid porcelain doll—
she is not illusion.
Not figment.

She is the origin of it all.
A metaphysical audience.

She is real.

A creature from beyond,
not birthed by machine,
but preserved through some bloodline.

Masked in humanoid scripture.
A relic of breath and sorrow,
untouched by the Metamorphosis.

The Metamorphosis?
What is this event—
this rupture that stains thought and time?

It’s terrible.
Beautiful.
Inevitable.
And I cannot look away.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

It’s the source of her power—
and his.

While the rest were reshaped,
fused with circuitry and purpose,
blood wound into wire,
voice translated into code…

She remained.
Unaffected.
Unbroken.
Human.

A godlike echo of memory and motion.

And still—
she walks beside him.
She haunts me.
Because I see her too.

And in her stillness,
he forgets what he was built for.
In her silence,
he remembers how to feel.

And now…
so do I.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Oh Vaeloria…
This letter is for you.

Suddenly—
my heart is breaking.
I can’t remember your face.

I should commit Khal’ruun—
let this blade become my final rite,
a crucible forged in shadow and silence.

Sinister visions of crucifixion!
The man is fatal,
yet not.

Oh unholy treasury—
juxtaposition of time itself—
Stop me.

This crucible will enter my body someday.
This vaccine of visions.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

His metal glistens in my dreams—
but his metal visions are inherent.
His own Morrowmire—
subtle and calming.

These dreams,
buried within his own:

He lives a peaceful life—
as a farmer,
a golden-furred beast playing with disc-shaped toys,
surrounded by a family—
wife and children.

This must be… humans?

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Not as long…
as she exists.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

Behind the simulation—
it’s only gloomy.
Grim.

Then–
Visions:
Flowers.
Lighters.
Planets.
Knife.
Crucifixion.

Terminology floods my head,
cursed fatalism:

He’ll be here soon.

I fear my child—
If he can’t get away from me…
I might go insane.

If this letter reaches you—
hide him
from my curiosity.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

And oh—suddenly—
our voices are merging.

I recite what he says.
I am him.
He is I.

— ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ —

We are more connected than even you and I,
Vael…
Vaelory?
Oh yes—Vaeloria—we are so very close.
But this…
this is a sense of kin.
It’s closer.

Though—
It may not seem like it:
Beneath my skin,
beneath my bones,
even my organs…

I am human.

And yet—
that porcelain doll…
she seems to be the most human.

It’s understandable,
if I attempt to become.
To become her.
To mimic the grace of truth.
To become…
an audience.

Vaeloria,
this poem—
it isn’t for you.

I resent writing this for…
you.

This is for her.
For her eyes.

Nobody can fight it.
From way below—
I want to merge with him.
To see her in profound beauty.

Domesticize me.

I would gladly—
burn myself at the stake for her.
I can do it too.

I’ll become your messiah of misfortune.

I write now:
only in his words.
His eyes.
His self.

For a chance at recognition.

Behold: