[center][u][h1]Belivahnn[/h1][/u][/center]

[center]Part Four[/center]

Johannas stared up at darkness; there was only darkness as he created it. He had created and combined the beauty of nature with that of stone masonry and rustic carpentry. He had originally made a fortress of white stone, domes atop each tower, rows of trees atop each thick wall digging deep into the earthworks within. It made a structurally ecological and stable structure; the roots of those trees made the walls thick, tall, and strong. But he stood in the center of the main citadel, staring up into the darkness as the stone had turned black. There were stains of white on the walls in the shapes of three men; he paid them no mind. He had done what he had done when he learned his adopted mother had passed away. He did feel sorry for them; his action had killed the three men, and it was out of grief at the news. I heard crying from one of the portals into the large room, but he did not mind it. It was a woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, burned likely from head to toe from his sudden outburst of emotion. 

When others entered the room, he was on the floor scrubbing away with his tunic, the beautiful blues, and whites soiled by black soot, it was smeared everywhere on him, and he scrubbed the stone until it cracked under his perfect hands. He was beautiful, even in sadness, with soft, delicate skin that looked like a marble statue in motion. His hair flowed in locks around him; the lighter blonde and brown strands turned black in ash. 

A man, old and frail, entered with a bucket, and beautiful robes collecting the deathly black ash in his trail as he moved to his adopted son's side. Instead of a tunic, it was thick cloth, the two started side by side. The elderly man waved the others off, leaving the two alone with only the scrubbing sounds to break the silence. It was like this for hours; while the old man moved around and cleaned, the perfect giant continued to get darker and darker with the ashes of his sadness. 

"You have worked hard to control it. You have grown and turned into a handsome man. An angel of peace, of life, your fires warm the city. You have become a beacon of hope and of light. You have spread your wings and become the angel that stares above us. You are like the child of fire my son. Though the gods have faded, they gave us a son made of fire. Fire feeds the earth, the earth feeds the plants, they feed the animals, the animals feed us, and we give fire to the earth. You are the incantation of the beginning of life; you were born in flame. Your mother, I, and your first guard. She took you from your steel and flame cradle, raised you, and now... It is your time to continue, your sons, Watchers, your crusaders of old. Continue that tradition of honor you already have with this fortress. You bring balance to everything you touch, but it is your time... Your mother and I... we grew old, she is gone, and soon enough, I will be as well... While you have killed so many, you have forgotten about time. It does not affect you, you still look young. It's been almost a half century, you still look twenty... your brothers and sisters look the age I did when you started the city. All of us, even the sons of a god are naive in our own ways. While I taught you many things, I forgot to teach you the basics of life, you have lived as an immortal, as we all have. Unlike your sisters, and brothers who lived lives, who created families and reputations away from their crafts. You grew in your work, I forgot to show you how to live. How to go things besides be a warrior, a craftsman, a general. You became an artist of reality rather than one of romantics, and in that I have failed you."

The man continued to scrub, harder and harder, the black soot-coated tunic having streaks of marble dust across it's tearing fabric. He stopped, and rested back on his knees, holding the cloth in one hand, his chest covered in running lines of sweat in soot. 

"Father, you did not fail to teach me that... you haven't failed; while states craft is complicated, I enjoy it. Some minds cause me to rethink my thoughts, but that is rare. Death is something I know is inevitable, but I wish I had lived my life with you both differently, instead of holding court in the foundation of a city, holding it in a room full of those close to me. Now around me, all I see are those of penitence, the souls of my army that lost everything, including themselves, to a war I held across this world. They wear the hoods of shame, masks of their sins, and mutilate themselves to atone beneath. They are my most disciplined guard in terms of protecting the innocents of the city. But they are fanatical, they see me as this god you call me, I am just a man."

The elder shook his head, and smiled, "The blind priest was a fine teacher for a man who never learned to read or write. He was simple, and while you took his words, you took the meaning of his teachings to heart, drawing others to that thought. You became a god when you first breathed the air of your realm but confirmed it when you took his teachings. I suspect he was a prophet, a witch, but he was a man of good faith, good company, and honor. I trusted his judgment, and so did you. It leads this world to prosperity and beauty. Our homes and walls are farms; our fields hold pastures full of creatures. If we were under siege today, we could outlive everyone outside it, and our walls would be undamaged even after centuries of attack and torture. The stone of their weapons would be the next tower on the horizon with your skills. But, that is not the point, you let go... and while I.. while we have been all telling you to control it, you should have listened to your mother, and let it go. Let it be wings... let it be apart of you, not just a hindrance, but a tool."

[hr]

He stood over a casket in which two bodies were embraced. Shortly after they had left the citadel, his father, too collapsed and passed away soon after. He held his father for hours, and everyone knew who it was as fire encased the two both. He stood there like a statue when he saw his parents in one last embrace. He was dressed for war, an honor guard at his sides as he stood like a statue guarding the bodies as people moved by to pay their respects. His siblings were in front of him in rows, their children in front of them. Sorrowful music played from somewhere in the marble city, somber and sad the walls echoed through each chamber and a nearby street. He had the acoustics done for a musician friend of his, a bright young conductor, Elbus Krone, he had known for twelve years; he suspected this last orchestral piece would be his last in the rise of current events. 

And hour after hour passed, thousands of people moved through, but the last was the hoods of the penitent soldiers, a line of men in peaked caps of greens, reds, whites, and blacks came forward. A crown of thorns, a missing mouth, no man's sin was the same between them, and each had a single distinction upon their body or head. Each moved forward, and as the last one came through, his guard moved for their respects, his siblings, their children, and himself. He turned and lifted a thick stone slab, normally, this took twenty strong men, but it was simple and easy for him. He sealed his parents' tomb and slowly began to pull on two chains to lower them down into their final resting place. He chose the place he found them; well, they found him. He felt something else nearby when constructing, but he chose not to explore; he chose this place in their honor. He chose it for their love, he wanted his memories to be in one place, and it would be in his beloved city, with his parents. Two stories above him were his quarters, his offices, and where he spent his evenings looking over the city of white and green. He had planned for this moment, he just wished it never happened. But in that moment, he decided to let go, and he did. 

He did not expect the wings, the last gift his mother gave him, wings of the eternal fire, an expression heard so many times before; now, he has embraced it as a gift from his mother. Perhaps, he thought, it would not be her last. It was an expression, one that balanced control and emotion. He, for once, controlled his flame.