for the thousands of years i have lived —- i find myself , for the first time in a very long time , in a strange new territory ( remembrance has taken life in the shape of your body / you have etched yourself a pathway through memory ; followed the golden thread that led theseus out of the labyrinth , and found me on the other side ) none other has come before you / you are the first of your kind —- why is that ? what about you has carved me from marble , and set me as a pillar in your mind why do you remember , when every other who has come before you , has forgotten ?
theirs is the body that belongs to death , a manifestation of life ( the sun , who warms the earth / who breathes within every living thing , who sows golden light , and culls the sorrow from the earth ) their fingertips twitch idly , and their lips press together —- brows pinched , in a display of agony ❝ i am sorry that your choice was taken from you , then . i would have allowed you to have it , but there is little i can do when fate is taken into the hands of another ❞
and in their voice , there is genuine sadness , their is recognition —- unmistakable , that beats and pleads like the pounding of a heart ; i was there , i was there , i was there ( i was real , and denial will not reshape its reality around you )
❝ a joke ? ❞ their features melt , and shift , surprise perhaps even the downturn of dejection , tucked into the corner of their mouth at his suddenness , at the way his voice chokes and cloys / the despair that melds into him like well worm cloth —- something he has known deeply , that is held so tightly it has become a part of him i had hoped to soothe you , to pry out a piece of that sorrow so that you might tred upon this earth with a lighter heart , i see that i have done nothing more than frighten you regret swims in their gut , gaze cast down for a moment ( the burden of the god that has never asked for worship , is that when you cry for someone to believe you —- humanity will turn their ears from you in disbelief ) ❝ it is not a joke . i am not that cruel . if you wish to leave then you may do so freely , but do not debase me as nothing more than a sick joke you refuse to believe ❞
a breath trembles in their throat ( there is old hurt here , thousands of years in the making —- there is the ghost of a god at their shoulder , with white hair and bloodied hands / whispering against their ear : magician , illusionist , you are nothing more than a trick ) a hand is held up , eyes closing for a moment —- as if to tell him to stop ❝ my name is akakios . i am a god , and i am light incarnate —- i am the sun come to the earth thousands of years ago . i do not ask you to believe me , but i do ask you not to cut me down in the throes of your own world view . i am very real , believe me as a mortal , or as a god , that i do not care . if you wish to believe this as more than a trick of whatever influence you are under tonight , then return tomorrow . ask for doctor loverdos , i will be here ❞
disbelief twists into something closer to offense, so abundant it nearly becomes funny. this would be a joke, if he weren’t so frightened. a trick of whatever influence you are under tonight. said smoothly, as if the only reason to linger in this lack of acceptance is intoxication, rather than logic, a concrete belief held for twenty three years. the sound of this astonishment leaps from victor’s throat; ha ! again lacking humor, lacking all but sarcasm and a twinge of mortification. he can hardly believe his eyes, and now neither his ears.
head shakes, eyes looking them up and down as he ruffles his hair for what feels like the hundredth time, shifting his weight between legs and stepping backwards as if he intends to run. ( and why haven’t you ? why do you linger in all that you fear, here where you hardly believe you’re awake ? ) never still, he draws in a harsh breath, trying to ground, self-soothe. “ i’ve never believed in gods my whole life. its not any influence on my mind ———— high or not, i’ve never . . . this doesn’t —— fuck. ” again he paces, hands dragging down his face, pulling at the veins in his sunken under-eyes. “ it just doesn’t add up. it was weird enough thinkin’ i saw you before and now you’re here, but that, you can’t . . . you can’t. i can’t. ”
this, in a way, is horror to him. the horror of potential wrongness, of one’s life-long view of life itself, the world, the universe and how it works ———— crumbled, stomped into dust and ash in all of ten minutes then blown back into his face. he’s dizzy. he can already feel his mind stepping away from him, see the room in his peripheral vision hiding away behind that blurry, dream-like screen. and yet. there’s something in his core that is curious, cat-like. he is a thief, after all, a spy, a man of subterfuge. he is horrified and yet he cannot look away, for what might it be like, being the first to hold this knowledge ? what can he learn ? can this be real ?
“ i’m not doin’ that. ” finally he looks to them again, but something in his eyes tells that he’s rather looking through them, or not looking anywhere at all. where are you going, victor ? where is your mind ? “ you bein’ here again tomorrow wouldn’t mean anything. but if you’re a g . . . if you’re tellin’ the truth, then ———— you’ve been in my house. do somethin’ godlike, turn up, show me. prove it. do whatever it was you did last time again. ”
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