The Mnemosyne Order (I-III)

[heylsgowt]

[themnemosyneorder]

The Cave of First Light: Cyrene's Plea

The cave smelled faintly of salt and iron, as if the stone remembered their bodies. Cyrene stood near the mouth, tasting the sea’s endless breath on her face. Her hair was unbound, long brown threads falling like a river over her shoulders, catching the dim glow of the lantern Anhelm had set between them. He sat cross-legged on the worn slab where they had once lain together, his hands clasped as if in prayer, though his eyes were restless.

“You speak of heaven as if it were a garden already blooming,” he said softly. “But the Scriptures speak of a day yet to come—a trumpet, a descent, the dead rising." He sighed. "Cyrene, please..”

Cyrene’s expression was warm and bright. Her eyes gleamed with pure affection: “And yet, beloved, did He not say, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand’?” Her voice carried the cadence of wine poured into clay, and he stirred.

“Not afar", she continued, "not locked behind the veil of death—at hand, my sweet. Here.”

She reached out and touched his breastbone lightly. “Within us.”

Anhelm’s jaw tightened. “At hand does not mean fulfilled. Hebrews says, ‘Christ will appear a second time, to save those who wait.’ And Acts—‘This Jesus will come in the same way you saw Him go.’ That is not metaphor, Cyrene. That is promise. Even command! A caution against pride. My darling, please..” His face twisted sorrowfully.

Her smile was tender, almost pitying. “And Luke tells us what he heard from the Son of God himself: ‘The kingdom of God will not come with observable signs; they will not say, “See here!” or “See there!” For indeed, the kingdom of God is in your midst.’ In our midst, Anhelm! Amongst us. Not in some distant sky, but in the marrow of our becoming. Straight from our Lord we know this!”

He looked up at her then, and for a moment his eyes were raw with longing. “If only that were true..” he whispered to himself; then something in him pulled away.

Cyrene knelt, her hands resting on his knees.

“It is stewardship, my love,” she said. “Isaiah dreamed of the lion and the lamb lying together. Harmony, not conquest, sweetheart. We are called to tend creation, not abandon it for a world beyond. A world that may not even exist - a delusion, a misinterpretation, a lapse in our own understanding of ourselves!"

Her eyes flashed and she stood up. "Why would we turn away from God's own, unbound ambition for us!?"

She turned and clasped her hands around his neck with fierce affection: "Would rejecting this possibility not be a terrible lapse of faith, my precious, precious, husband?! And even if I am wrong, even if a Second Coming happens in a different way, my darling, how would it be wrong to welcome our Lord from beyond the stars, with love in our hearts? With children who love and parents who love and with LIFE everlasting? Life in God's word and in God's own flesh! Will he tell us off for aspiriing to that? Love God and Love your neighbour! What law mentions a mandatory death!?"

"And if I am right, just consider it, Anhelm! Rejecting this terrible, beautiful, extraordinary path, my love, our own failure would condemn us to eternal purgatory! Our whole species! Condemned to approximations and failures and self-deception in the face of avoidable biological death, avoidable decay! Has Ashwinter taught us nothing? Indeed how can we tend to a child's wellbeing today and tomorrow, and in a year's time, and to our own health, but then at some arbitrary time, to suddenly stop and welcome death?? And if we celebrate and protect and enjoy health, why not do so wholeheartedly, unceasingly? Why limit ourselves to decades. Would anyone dare argue that medieval life expectancy pleased God? That penicillin and modern medicine and life-saving surgeries are hostile instead of angelic? Why not three centuries, then? Why not millennia? Is the world really so boring and its richness so scarce that we become bloated with the gift of life!?"

Anhelm’s breath shuddered. “And yet Revelation speaks of a new heaven and a new earth. A consummation DESPITE physical decay. A raising and judgement of the dead.” He ran his hand through his hair with visible anxiety.

Her laugh was soft, filled with a deep sadness. “Revelation? A vision in a cave, Anhelm. A man exiled on Patmos, fevered with solitude. You know this—you dismantled the other lies yourself. Mary and Joseph, chastity twisted into chains. You tore that veil. Why stop now? Why not lean on Christ's words alone?!”

His eyes darkened. “Because this is different. This is eternity. Our power is limited for a reason... these, these mortal fingers perish so, so that our faith in a world beyond us can be glorified, even in Death!"

"NO! My God, Anhelm! GLORY AND DEATH?! Only if unavoidable!! The Son of Man himself wished it not, his sweat was blood and the cup unbearable! He did it so we don't have to!!” she exclaimed. “Please." She stopped, took a deep breath. "The Lord's words were not riddles, but seeds. ‘The kingdom is at hand.’ ‘The kingdom is among you.’ Why cling to the old scaffolds of fear? To drink his blood is to learn! To eat his flesh is to live!! Was an innocent death not enough? Was it not enough that He wished He Lived? He died so that we could live! It's so clear! It’s so clear! THE WHOLE UNIVERSE was made for us, Anhelm. The Father  will and CANNOT change what HE preordained - He will wait forever for us to create his Kingdom, create it HERE AMONGST US as his Son told us to! There is NO necessity for us to die in order to fulfil the law - LOVE AND LIFE ARE NOT AT ODDS WITH EACH OTHER! Yes, we must be ready to die FOR love, but equally we must seek life and turn away from death. It is a binary, my love! There is no middle ground! You either want to live, or you want to die! Please, Anhelm!"

There was a brief and tense quiet. The light of the lantern flickered silently between them.

"Do you understand what you're asking me to accept, my love? To watch my body dissolve while my mind still burns for you?" Her face was for a moment the face of agony.

Anhelm rose abruptly, pacing the cave like a man pursued by invisible birds. “You speak as though flesh could bear divinity. But Paul says—‘This perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body immortality.’ Realising midsentence that this was not the direction he actually wanted to veer towards, Anhelm quickly added: “But NOT by artifice, Cyrene!! By death… yes.. and by.. by resurrection - NEITHER of our own hand but through, through Christ alone!!” His face was a mask of pain.

“What?! How?! Have you not said yourself just now? Even Paul glimpsed it. Wherever does it say that to not die one must die first?! Please, you are classically trained, Anhelm! Please, use your Reason - relinquish the dogma, relinquish the fear!!” Tears started pouring down her face.

He turned, eyes fierce, not listening: “And what of the angels? Thrones, dominions, powers—Colossians names them. Orders beyond our ken. Do you think we can vault their hierarchy by chemistry and will? That we can storm heaven with our own hands?!”

Cyrene’s voice was steady. “And yet Christ Himself shattered that hierarchy by incarnation. He walked among us. Ate, wept, bled. If divinity could stoop to flesh, why should flesh not rise toward divinity? Be perfect as your Father is perfect! It is what he taught us!! Children of God! Her eyes shone through the tears. “You know that God works not, cannot work against Itself - angels and demons and whatever other principalities exist, they are bound by the same laws of physics and metaphysics as we are - if it is ordained that we encounter them, if indeed they play their subtle part in the full Order, as they probably do, and have done for centuries, then surely the Angels will sing and praise our vanquishing of the illness of decay, just as the demons will snarl away at it and lie about what’s true and right!” “I see it happening right now”, she thought, and nearly said it.

Anhelm’s tone hardened. “Yet death is the crucible. Without it, there is no redemption. The Church, the Church teaches—original sin, corruption inherent in flesh. We cannot mend that fracture with our own hands. We need deliverance, Cyrene. Metaphysical deliverance through Christ alone!!”

Her eyes glimmered like wet stones. “And what if that deliverance is not a thunderclap from the clouds, but a slow dawn within us? What if Christ’s second coming is not spectacle, but incarnation—again and again—in those who dare to love without fear?"

He continued pacing in the narrow light of the lantern. She continued, softly: "I have held dying children in my arms, Anhelm. Please don't preach to me about the beauty of endings.” 

He closed his eyes, looking away from her terrible face; suddenly he could think of nothing but cite Revelation; he began in a sort of mournful fugue: ‘Behold, I saw a new heaven and a new earth… and the former things passed away.’ He spoke it aloud, as if to anchor himself. “If the former things pass away, Cyrene, then what you propose—immortality, perpetual stewardship—defies prophecy; it defies God.” He finally looked at her, pleadingly.

She leaned close, her breath warm against his face. “Or fulfils it. If the old order passes, let it pass through us. If a new earth dawns, let us be its dawn. Tell me, Franciscan —how would living another year, and another, how would loving and keeping love alive be sin? If it is not sin today, how could it be tomorrow? Would you ever stop loving me, my husband?” She pulled her soft warm body to his and she sobbed.

He trembled. 

Outside, the sea roared like a neglected animal. For a long while, neither spoke. Then Anhelm reached for her hand, and then for her shoulder, and then for the back of her neck. 

[blooming-lenses]

hellebores in dew 2025/04/12

[beyondearthhq-deactivated202601]

Stunning: Saturn - September 9 2016

Assembled using raw uncalibrated infrared filtered images

(Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/SSI/Kevin M. Gill)

[unscriptd-deactivated20260317]

Robert Hawcridge

[themnemosyneorder]

Thalia's Betrayal

1. The Council’s Discovery (The Trigger)

A cold, vaulted chamber stretched widely beneath the Order’s archives. Synthesists and Remembrancers gathered around a 3D model of an agent's idiographic lattice.

The image pulsed and rotated. Within its folds, the echo of Thalia’s mind flickered— very clean, very symmetrical. A Synthesist leaned in, her fingers twitching with unnamed discomfort. “There’s a lacuna,” she said. The others gathered in silence. “Concealment?” “Not quite. Omission. Intentional. She’s hidden something— could it be? Could she have attempted it? A self-induced occlusion to mask an illegal intervention? My God. Please freeze her access immediately. ” "The lacuna is… elegant. Not a blunt excision. More like an overgrown wall— she fenced the memory in, but did not destroy it.” “She knew better than to use veilwarden techniques on herself. She left the memory intact, but unreachable. A kind of… moral quarantine”, whispered one of the Remembrancers. The Overseer exhaled uneasily. “We must ask her.”

2. Thalia’s Interrogation (The Reckoning)

The Chamber was white with no corners. The Council sat in a circle. Thalia stood in the middle, barefoot, her hands open. Her hair was loose. Her unique hairpin was held between the proctor's fingers.

“You used the Rite of the Third Veil on a fellow initiate.” “She was in danger.” “You breached her mind.” “I loved her.” The words hung in the air like a dirty cloud. One of the Council, a sister whose eyes carried as much pity as they did horror, asked: “You understand what you’ve done?” Thalia’s tone was dry. “I understand that she would have shattered. I understand that he was not what he seemed. I understand that I am not sorry.” The grief stretched into silence. There had been no Rite of Severance performed on a sister in the last hundred years.

3. The Breach (The Act Itself)

Setting: A quiet garden within the Order’s compound. Elara sits on a bench, eyes closed. Thalia approaches.

“You’re thinking of him again,” Thalia said. Elara smiled, soft and unguarded. “He’s kind. He listens.” “He’s lying.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” And then Thalia knelt before her, took her hands, and did the unthinkable. Elara’s breath caught. Her eyes widened. Later that night she wept in her sleep —not because she remembered, but because something had been taken. Thalia held her, and hated herself.

4. Elara and the Young Man (The Catalyst) (?)

The civilian outpost infirmary was quiet and cold. Elara tended to a wound on a young man’s arm. He watched her very closely.

“You’re not like the others,” he said. “I’m not sure I’m like anyone,” she replied, half-smiling. He leaned in. “You ever feel like you were meant for something else?” She paused. Something in her chest stirred— she wasn't sure whether it was pleasant or not. “Sometimes,” she said. “Maybe. I'm not sure.” He touched her hand. She almost pulled away, but didn’t.

5. Elara’s Release (The False Goodbye)

Setting: A sterile departure chamber. A Remembrancer hands Elara a small case.

“You were orphaned during the Mars collapse. You were raised here. You showed aptitude for medicine. We have enclosed a reference for you. Go in peace, Elara.” “And that’s all?” “That’s all.” Elara nodded. But as she turned to leave, she hesitated. “There was someone,” she said. “A girl. I don’t remember her name.” The Remembrancer smiled gently. “We all imagine companions in childhood. It’s how we survive.” Elara left. The door closed. The Remembrancer sat down and wept.

Previous Scene: The Deliberation Before Elara’s Release

Setting: A chamber lined with memory-thread patterns. An idiographic lattice pulses in the centre. Three figures stand around a table bearing Elara’s case file.

Midwife Serene (voice low, protective): “She’s strong. The blemish could be corrected. A year of guided therapy, perhaps two. She could remain in training.”

Synthesist Mary (tapping the lattice): “Not without risk. The bond with Thalia runs deep—rooted in early attachment. It’s not a scar; it’s a vascular system. Every correction would bleed.”

Veilwarden Andromeda (coldly): “Protocol forbids retention after breach. Purity is the spine of the Order. If we bend it, we break it.”

Serene (sharply): “Purity? She was a child when this began. An infant! She didn’t choose the bond.”

Mary (softly): “The bond is not the only problem. The memory scrub will not erase Thalia entirely. We can fade her, diminish her weight—but Elara will dream of her. Daydream friendships, phantom kinship. It will persist.”

Andromeda (decisively): “Then she cannot serve. A veilwarden with a compromised mind is a blade with a crack. It will shatter when struck.”

Serene (after a long silence): “Then what becomes of her?”

Andromeda (rigidly) : “We release her. Minimise the damage: engineer a past. (She sighs.) —Mars orphan, aptitude for medicine. Give her a reference for the Academy. She will still be a healer.”

Serene (bitterly): “And Thalia?”

Andromeda (closing the file): “Severed. She will walk the outer worlds until her name is dust.”

6. Thalia's Severance (The Bitter Bloom)

They gathered at dusk; faint light bled out across the regolith. Eleven gathered.

The chamber was circular, carved into the dead rock; it was far from the Menmosyne compound. The walls had been lined with pale stone from Lindisfarne, veined with green and silver; some blocks still bore the old yellow stamp. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed hellebore—sharp, bitter, faintly metallic. At the centre stood a silver basin filled with a dark liquid that shimmered with iridescent oil. This particular extract of Martian hellebore came from a plant that grew only in the domed craters of the southern pole, where the soil was laced with ancient toxins and the wind howled endlessly in the deep, white cold.

The extract was not exactly poisonous. While it did not kill, it did something close to it. It opened the mind to grief as deep and as wide as it would go. It made mourning deeper and sharper than death. Those who drank it would feel the weight of what was lost, not as memory, but as presence: a ghostly unbearable ache, a pressure behind the eyes, a taste of absence that lingered on the tongue for months.

The Veilwardens drank it in small sips, as a sign of solidarity. But the one being severed drank deeply.

Thalia stood before the basin, her hands bare, her robe unfastened at the throat. She was tall—taller than most of the Council members—and her posture was so precise it seemed sculpted. Her skin was pale, not with the pallor of illness, but with the luminous stillness of marble. Her hair, black as a raven, was bound in a single braid that fell like a line of ink down her back.

The bones of her face were delicate, like ribs of glass underneath silk, and her eyes were large, dark, and green, with prominent limbal rings and a gaze that seemed to see through the skin and into the marrow. There was no softness in them, but neither was there cruelty. Their clarity seemed terrible, like a painting of pain.

Her mouth was full, drawn with a precision that made it look exaggeratedly artistic. She was silent: had been silent for days.

The Midwife approached her with the ceremonial cup. Its base was stone; the lacquered wood, blackened and blue, was stained at the rim from previous use on another planet. The liquid inside was thick and dark, with a sheen like old ink. It smelled of earth and iron and something much older.

Thalia took the cup with both hands.

The Veilwardens formed a circle around her, each holding a smaller cup. They raised them in unison, and drank.

Thalia drank last.

She drank deeply, until the cup was empty, until the last drop clung to the rim and then was gone. Her throat moved once, twice. Then she lowered the cup and closed her eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then her breath caught. Her spine arched, subtly, like a bowstring drawn too far. Her eyes opened, and for a heartbeat they were not dark but silver, reflecting the light of the chamber in a way that was unbearable to watch. Her lips parted, and a sound escaped—not a cry, not a word, but something terrible.

Her sisters bowed their heads.

They did not speak of what the extract showed her. They did not ask what she saw. But they knew. The Rite was not only for her. It was for them too: a reminder that severance was not clean. That even the most precise cut left a wound.

When it was over, Thalia stood alone. Her hands were stained black from the cup. Her eyes were dry. Her heart hardly beat.

She bowed once, to no one in particular, and walked from the chamber:

“O Faith, you asked for purity, and I complied. O Law, you asked for sacrifice, and I was true. But love is not a thing that can be tied— And now I walk, and she forgets, and you.”

Her long black hair lay dead on a clump on the stone floor, as Thalia stepped naked unto the Martian plane.

7. Elara in Med School (Flashback Trigger)

Setting: Mars Medical Academy, Autopsy Theatre. The air is cold, metallic. A cadaver lies open on the table. Elara stands at the edge, scalpel in hand, her breath fogging slightly.

The instructor’s voice was a low drone, and the naming of organs was done in a clear and practiced tone: hepatic flexure, pyloric sphincter, pericardium, etc. Elara’s hand trembled. Not from fear—she had seen death before—but from something else. A memory, half-formed, like a dream she couldn’t quite wake from. “There is no need to fear,” said a voice—not the instructor’s. She blinked. “The body is still the person. But their spirit is elsewhere now. You honour them both by learning.” The words were familiar. The tone—low, calm, with that slight Martian accent—was achingly familiar. “Thalia,” she whispered. “What was that, Elara?” the instructor asked. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking aloud.” But the memory had returned. A white lab. A girl with dark eyes and a voice like water. Teaching her to hold a scalpel. To breathe through grief. That night, Elara dreamed of a garden with no walls.

[preraphaelitepaintings]

Mnemosyne

Artist: Dante Gabriel Rossetti (English, 1828–1882)

Date: 1881

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington, Delaware, United States

Description

This painting, much like Rossetti’s earlier composition of Beata Beatrix (see the Museum's copy of this composition by Charles Fairfax Murray) can be interpreted as a memorial to a past love, in this case, Jane Morris, the wife of William Morris, with whom he had an affair in the 1870s. The title, Mnemosyne, refers to the goddess of memory and the mother of the muses, a poignant symbol of the importance of his relationship with Jane Morris. It was originally to be called Ricordanza, a slightly archaic form of the Italian word for remembrance. This earlier title is just barely visible at the upper left, where it has been covered over with paint. As is always the case in Rossetti’s “double works,” the inscription on the frame reinforces the theme conveyed in the image:

Thou fill’st from the winged chalice of the Soul Thy lamp, O Memory, fire-winged to its goal.

[arthistoryanimalia]

For #WorldJellyfishDay 🪼:

a sampling of #sciart watercolors by Charles-Alexandre Lesueur (French, 1778-1846) from his & François Péron's (French, 1775-1810) work conducted on the Baudin Expedition to Australia (1800-1804), which more than quadrupled the # of documented jellyfish species.

Muséum du Havre archives

[beyondearthhq-deactivated202601]

[house0fburton]

[themnemosyneorder]

[themnemosyneorder]

Scene: The Villa and the Tomb (China)

The journey to Xi’an wound through mist-veiled hills: cypress trees lined the road, the air smelled of rain. Cyrene’s small convoy passed through a carved stone arch bearing four characters in gold: 静观之境 (Realm of Silent Contemplation). Beyond lay Jacob's home — a sprawling siheyuan complex, its courtyards framed by vermilion walls and roofs of glazed green tiles that curved like a spine against the spring sky.

The structure was pure symmetry: four halls enclosing a central courtyard, each named with the unusual poetic precision used in the long tradition of imperial aesthetic bureaucracy. Cyrene’s guide presented them as they walked.

The "Hall of the Most Distinguished View (至景堂)" faced the distant mountains, its high windows framing the landscape like an ink drawing.

The "Pavilion of Moderate Tranquillity (中静轩)" was a retreat for tea and conversation, with lattice screens and carvings flowing with floral motifs.

The "Gallery of Winter’s Highest Beauty (冬华廊)" was a north-facing hall lined with scrolls depicting winter scenes and calligraphy. Cyrene noted that some of the scrolls appeared to be Japanese. Her guide nodded and smiled a little awkwardly.

The courtyards bloomed with peonies and bamboo. The air was fragrant and pure - gravity and lightness coexisted silently. Pools mirrored the sky, and koi glid beneath lotus leaves like disappearing jewels. Bronze cranes stood sentinel at the water’s edge, their forms an echo to ancient aspirations of longevity.

Cyrene was led through corridors paved in white stone veined with jade, past alcoves where celadon vases gleamed under diffuse light. Shelves of Song dynasty porcelain, Tang bronzes, and old manuscripts lined the study walls—texts on Confucian ethics, Daoist metaphysics, and Jesuit treatises from the Ming court. Here was a man whose wealth had been carefully displayed; it possessed the density of extreme wealth but not so much the ostentatiousness of government dwellings. The man had signed his letter 'Jacob', but the envelope bore the mark of Chinese military transportation.

He welcomed her in the Hall of Stillness (静心堂), where he stood in the half-light like a figure made of hardened sand. His skin reminded Cyrene of the colour of Durham. The chamber was both graceful and austere: polished sandalwood floors, two scroll of Wang Xizhi’s calligraphy unfurled on opposite sides of the room, and a tea table carved from a single block of jade. He wore a black tunic with a green collar and crimson cuffs. A discreet insignia of the Huánghǎi Bio-Architectural Corps was embroidered in gold on his chest: a dome rising from waves, encircled by a yellow dragon.

His face bore the first inscriptions of age, not in the soft collapse of flesh but in fine, deliberate lines, as though time had etched him with a stylus rather than a chisel. His cheekbones rose like the ridges of a weathered plateau, and his mouth, though narrow, held a severity that was both unforced and deeply arresting. He was slender, almost desiccated, as if the years had drawn water from him and left only the essential architecture behind. His cropped hair—black still, but with threads of white—lay close to the skull, emphasizing the Mongolian cast of his features: the high, clean sweep of the brow, the eyes set deep and slightly oblique; they were dark as lacquer and nearly inscrutable. He looked like a statue in a forgotten shrine: even his silence had weight, as if it were quarried from the same substance as his bones. When he moved, though, the air seemed to shift with a sudden and relaxed youthfulness, his eyes smiled and the scent that filled the room was vibrant and modern; it made Cyrene think of sea spray and opera houses.

He bowed deeply. “Prioress Cyrene,” he said in Mandarin, his voice clear and direct. “Your presence honours this house.”

She returned the gesture and replied, in a slightly accented Mandarin: “Your house honours the world.”

They spoke over tea—oolong aged in volcanic clay, its aroma earthy and sweet. He told her of his parents, saved during the Ashwinter by a Mnemosyne Veilwarden cell that evacuated their village before the pyroclastic winds arrived. “I owe the Order my life,” he said.

Then he led her to another hall, a room bare but for a single pedestal and a pair of goggles resting upon it. “I wish to show you something.”

Cyrene reached out and slowly donned the goggles. They were light and very comfortable. The room dimmed. A drone’s-eye view unfolded before her - mostly trees and rolling hills. The camera hovered a few moments then descended through layers of leaves, earth and stone, following a thin laser pathway into the ground. When it stopped, it revealed a vast chamber that, she knew instantly, had been sealed for millennia. Cyrene drew in her breath. Rivers of liquid mercury shimmered like molten silver, flowing through channels that mapped an ancient empire. Statues of beasts and stars lined the walls. There were accents of gold everywhere; jewels pulsed high above in the cavernous light.

“This,” he said, his voice low, reverent, “is the dream of one world, one order. The Emperor sought eternity—not in flesh, but in dominion. He failed. But you—your theology of true stewardship—you may succeed.”

Cyrene removed the goggles, her eyes wide.

He nodded slowly. “I believe in order. In harmony. In the possibility of a world where the lion lies with the lamb—not by force, but by design. You offer that. Your Order offers that.”

She looked out the distant window, where the hills rolled like sleeping serpents into the long sky.

He bowed again, deeper this time. “You shall have everything you need." He handed her a small card. "The heart of China beats for you, young mother.”

He stood up and opened the doors unto a square hall decorated with flowers. "It would honour me greatly if you and your husband dined with me for your birthday." He bowed, very deeply, again.

Outside, the wind stirred the bamboo, and the koi rippled in their ponds.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

This is one of the only terracotta warriors that was found almost completely intact.

Note the detail on the bottom of his shoe, showing that grip and traction were considered in footwear even 2,200 years ago.

Each life-sized clay warrior was crafted to be completely unique and there are no two terracotta warriors-among the 8,000 total—that are exactly the same.

Shortly after the completion of the tomb in 210-209 BC, it was looted for weapons and burned, causing the roof to collapse, crushing the terracotta warriors.

All the other terracotta warriors that are currently on display were painstakingly restored.

What's even more remarkable is that the terracotta warriors were originally painted in bright colors by skilled artisans.

Unfortunately, when they were exposed to air and sunlight during the excavation in the 1970s, the colors began to curl up almost immediately and disappeared within minutes.

These terracotta warriors were put in place to guard the tomb of the first emperor of unified China — Qin Shi Huang (18 February 259 BC – 12 July 210 BC).

To this day, the tomb has yet to be opened.

According to ancient historians, the tomb contains an entire kingdom and palace in which the ceilings are decorated with pearls to mimic the night sky.

The tomb is also said to contain extremely rare artifacts and has been rigged with crossbows to shoot anyone trying to break in.

To keep its location a secret, the workers were entombed with the emperor.

As described by Han dynasty historian Sima Qian (145-90 BCE) in the Records of the Grand Historian, he mentioned that inside the tomb, "mercury was used to fashion the hundred rivers, the Yellow River and the Yangtze River, and the seas in such a way that they flowed."

Modern tests have indicated extremely high levels of mercury in the surrounding soil.

[themnemosyneorder]

Chapter: The Lesson Under Moonlight

The garden was silver under the moon. Lanterns glowed faintly among bamboo groves, their light pooling on polished stone. Cyrene moved barefoot across the courtyard, her habit flowing silently - jade clasps and printed silk panels a quiet nod to Jacob's villa's heritage.

The girl stood with the bamboo staff held tightly, knuckles pale against the grain. She was tall for her age—perhaps fifteen, perhaps younger, though her posture suggested someone who had been told to grow up too soon. Her limbs were long and slender, like the reeds around her, and she moved with the taut grace of someone who feared her own agility. Her posture was very careful, slightly folded in upon itself; it made Cyrene think of a letter that someone wrote but never sent. Her eyes were large—too large, perhaps, if such a thing is possible —and dark enough to seem bottomless when the light caught them. They gave her the look of someone perpetually startled by the world, someone who had either just woken up from a dream or was about to fall into another. One sensed that if she were to speak suddenly, the words would come out in a rush, tumbling over one another - either that or she would not speak at all, as if the chasm between her interior reality and the words available to describe it could only be bridged by silence or extreme exuberance. Her hair was drawn back severely, not because severity suited her, but because severity had become third nature to her. Her clothes were plain, but they hung on her with a certain elegance born of proportion rather than ornament. And when she shifted her weight, preparing for the next strike, there was a flicker—brief, nearly imperceptible—of something fierce and bright, like a spark glimpsed through layers of ash. It was gone at once, smothered beneath that practiced composure, but it left the impression that Clio was not so much calm as she was holding calm at bay.

Cyrene heard the rhythm before she saw it: the soft woosh of a wooden staff cutting arcs through air. Circular motions complemented sudden strikes. The stick blurred, then stilled, then blurred again. Cyrene was reminded of the Chinese practices used in Veilwarden training. They were displayed here in their conservative form, and what rigidity they retained was softened by an uneasy elegance.

She watched for a moment, then stepped forward without sound. When the girl pivoted, Cyrene moved—one hand sweeping for the wrist, the other for the staff. The girl blocked beautifully, wood cracking against Cyrene’s forearm. She gasped.

“That's all right” she said softly in Mandarin. “Again.”

The girl shifted stance, weight low, eyes bright. Cyrene circled her, calm, patient. Then she attacked—hips turning, a judo sweep hidden in the grace of her motion. The stranger countered, but Cyrene flowed under her guard, hooked her balance, and brought her down—not hard, but firm. The staff rolled across the stone.

Cyrene offered a hand. The girl took it, her grip trembling. When she rose, Cyrene gestured to the staff. “Again?”

The girl obeyed. Cyrene stepped back, her posture loose, her eyes steady. “Remember: your mind is clear. Do not chase victory. Do not fear defeat. Be still, but ready.”

The girl nodded, breath quickening.

Cyrene moved closer, her voice low. “The attacker is always at a disadvantage. Always. Because attack is aggression. It is exposure. When I moved against you, I gave you the truth of my intent. You can always use that.”

Cyrene took the staff, demonstrated slowly: her own sweep, then the counter—a pivot, a lock, a shift of weight that would have sent her sprawling. “Like this,” she said. “You wait. You listen. You move only when you have to.”

The girl tried, sweat breaking on her brow. Her first attempt was clumsy, her second better. Cyrene corrected her grip, adjusted her stance. “Feel the ground,” she said. “It is your ally. Make your breath become your anchor into the earth.”

They danced the strange dance together, three or four or five iterations. The girl had considerable talent, more than Cyrene's at her age. Her hesitance melted into focus, then into joy. When she finally locked Cyrene’s wrist, her eyes shone and she shrieked a small shriek of joy. She immediately looked appalled, bowed deeply and apologised profusely.

"Well done, young sister! Let yourself feel the joy!" Cyrene laughed, bowed back and sat down cross-legged." "Tea?" she said in Mandarin.

The girl's eyes widened and she smiled very broadly before correcting her expression again. 'I can think of no greater honour, mother Cyrene of the Mnemosyne Order. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.' She retreated slowly into the cloisters, bowing as she went and keeping her head low.'

-

A figure watched silently from the terrace above. Bamboo shifted in the breeze and the scent of magnolia blossomed freely into the night. Jacob knew then that his daughter was no longer his, and he wept.

[illustratus]

The Angel of Death by Evelyn De Morgan

[themnemosyneorder]

Mnemosyne Combat Doctrine — Veilwarden Principles (Codex Martius – Entry 3.1 ) -

Classification: Restricted;

Origin: Mnemosyne Order, Mars Incubator Facility (Early Training) Application: Tactical Engagement, Memory Warfare, Psychic Shielding;

Status: Active in Veilwarden Units

I. Overview

The Veilwarden Principles are the martial embodiment of Mnemosyne’s core philosophy: Truth is Weapon, Truth is Goal, Truth is Shield. Memory is the battlefield. Lies are the Enemy.

These principles guide operatives trained in the art of psychic occlusion, mnemonic disruption, and empathic mirroring—techniques designed not to kill, but to unwrite falsehoods from enemies’ mind.

Veilwardens do not merely fight. Indeed their physical martial arts training, although extensive and original in its blending of ancient martial traditions with classic dance and modern warfare principles, is secondary to their main offensive capacity. Essentially, Veilwardens are trained to erase, rewrite, and replace. Their doctrine is not about domination, but disappearance. They are lie killers.

II. Core Tenets

The Mirror is the First Blade “Reflect the enemy’s intent until they no longer recognize it.” Veilwardens use empathic resonance to destabilize hostile emotional states. Combat begins with mirroring, not striking.

Memory is a Weapon, and a Wound “To remember is to bleed. To understand is to heal. To control memory is to command pain.” Mnemonic disruption techniques target the opponent’s short-term memory, inducing confusion, déjà vu, or false recall. They are considered unfortunate but necessary and temporary solutions to violence.

The Veil is Sacred “Visibility is vulnerability. The unseen survives.” Veilwardens operate under strict cloaking protocols, both physical and psychic. Their presence is often felt only in aftermaths.

No Kill is Clean “Every death echoes. Minimize the echo.” Lethality is permitted only when memory containment or physical immobilisation fail. Preferred outcomes involve neutralization through temporary forgetting, followed by cognitive replacement therapy, conducted by Remembrancers. The endgoal is to turn the enemy into friend by replacing mental falsehood with theological truth. Veilwardens are exorcists.

The Archive Must Be Preserved “We do not destroy history. We redeem it.” Veilwardens are trained to extract and preserve key memories from targets, often using neural siphons or dream anchors.

III. Tactical Applications

Dream Insertion: Implanting alternative memories during REM cycles to temporarily redirect toxic behaviour.

Echo Cloak: A psychic field that causes observers to misremember the operative’s location or appearance.

Mnemonic Grenades: Devices that scramble short-term memory within a localized radius.

Veilwalk Protocol: A meditative trance allowing operatives to phase through psychic detection nets.

IV. Commentary by Daedalus

Ah, the Veilwardens! Those whispering archivists of oblivion. I admire them, in the way a cracked mirror admires the face it distorts. PS: They are not assassins. They are editors. And war, dear reader, is a manuscript.

[herpsandbirds]

Eastern Screech Owls (Megascops asio), mother with chicks, family Strigidae, order Strigiformes, eastern US

photograph by Lesley Cole Mattuchio

[lionofchaeronea]

Something about the mother's eye haunts me in a way I can't possibly express in words.