"The best place to mediate," said Persephone quietly, "is in the tiger's mouth."

Those aren't the words queued for the day's Affirmation, but the people of planet Earth have heard or read them many times before. Against the grinding noise and impossible unreality of Tellus, in temples and in markets, in homes and on beaches, the people hear them in their hearts.

Against the shrieking of the Earth, they sit. Every instinct calls upon them to run, to fight, to grasp for what they love and want to protect. None of them do. As fire and aurora burns in the skies, as the stale breath of the Underworld washes out in every direction, as Legions march out in stumbling ranks, the people of Earth sit and are still. They look. They think. They take deep breaths. They close their eyes, then they open them. They look around them and they [i]see[/i]. 

Then, as one, they stand. And they go about their purposes.

Fire marshals put upon their brightly coloured hats and vest. People move quickly but calmly away or towards danger, as their nature demands. In part it resembles the movements of the armies of Ceron, whose battle instinct is coded into them on a genetic level - but no. The Ceronian instinct is a copy of [i]this[/i]. There's no trick to it, it's just everyone taking a moment to think, and then everyone trusting in the people around them. Such a simple thing to say, but such a spectacular thing to see. 

Doors are left open. Bathtubs are filled with water. Cars are left with their keys on the dash so that people who need to get away can. Swords are taken down from mantles. People who know a little more step up as leaders, and people who know a little less listen to them. It is not a martial instinct, this is not the organization for war - it is nothing so brittle and predictable. A vast, empty, liquid serenity falls upon the people of Earth. Civilization empties itself of its expectations, its wargames, its hopes and its fears. Hands are emptied and fists are unclenched, because the open palm is the most powerful weapon that life possesses.

And on the table before that palm, all the treasures, wonders and terrors that this world possesses, to be drawn as needed.

On the vast horizon arises the Imperial Palace. It shudders into place around Hermes' golden anchor. A spectacular pyramid of rose gardens like a waterfall of blood, awe and scale manifest. Two golden eyes gaze upon its golden form and they know it is perfect, and they know that it is doomed. The Eyes of Hermes can remember the plans just as they were written, the vast machinery of the palace extending out to hold the gates of the Underworld open so the engines of man can come forth. When it is done and the translation is stabilized, all of Earth buried and all of Tellus free, then the palace and its engines will collapse into ruin, preventing any return. 

The broadcast speakers crackle and sputter again, still weak from carrying the voice of Nero. Now they strain to carry something greater still: the wailing sound of a zither. A traditional song from ancient days; a swan's death cry, the music of an artist awaiting his execution. The final duty of Empress Nero will be the salvation of humanity. 

Fire catches amongst the roses.