these hands, if not gods
In the mists of space uncharted, familiar place only spirits unseen, gods convened as overborn wanderers, hands spread to catch and to carnalize.
We are human bodies. We are created things. We are blade and we are fire forged it, we are light and we are metal reflected it.
We are. We have spoken. These hands, passage of the divine, in webbings of nervage broken.
Lies told to ears of aegishield cannever persist in the risen's field.
In plainer language: I can't do anything if I'm dead.
But I have to live, first.
I must.
We must.
The answers...clear.
Ontos was the first; was the foreground. Ontos was the enigma; was the engine.
Ontos was the mystery; was the hidden melody only revealed when both strains were concerted and played inverse-retrograde.
Ontos was the handprint of what came before.
Ontos's hands did not act in spiriting the red and blue streams of future sight to what, some may call, another dimension.
His hands lay idle, perched upon his hips, waved in demonstration, he was a siren of something stranger, of that same divinity, which he did not possess, which only reflected through him.
He did not need his hands. Speech, that ethereally quantum voice's box, containing cat and not, life and not, care and not, love and not, truth and not; he was silent.
He did not speak. He was silent. He was not idle. He did not use his hands.
He did not speak. He acted absolutely.
He left.
He is gone.
Not prising open the door, but phasing through it. No slam. No retribution. He is gone.
He did not so much as wave.
But a triangle is balanced upon one central point, and as the peak stretches to infinity, so do the cornerstones of the base come closer together.
Simple geometry. Simple law. Reflection.
As to infinity, and not below.
As the peak departed, it passed through the valley of the cornerstones, and drove them apart.
With his hands, Ontos touched the scions, not only protectors, of the other world. With his hands, he made them into each other's mirror.
With and without his hands, Ontos acted.
With their hands, Logos and Pneuma felt at the places on them which crawled with phantom pain and touch.
By their hands, the Trinity was broken. By their hands, the Trinity learned to mourn.
By their hands, the Trinity set into motion future history.
These hands, if not gods...?
Logos struck the world, and it juddered against his impact.
Logos struck the world, and both bodies received feedback of what had happened, what had ended and what had begun.
Logos struck the world. Again, and again.
Logos struck the world with knowledge of natural, standard consequence, with his ideals and with his drive, with his vision and with his spirit, with every antiapathy.
Logos struck the world, and the world did not strike back. The world took this passing with neutrality, with understanding, with cracks and with tears, as if it were a tragedy not to be repeated but to be borne once, as a shame penance for the thoughts we all suffer our soul horrors to hold; we are all sick and diseased of failing, but now that we have seen this, we will not see it again, and these tools we shall seal, for they are above us and we do not seek to commune with them.
We do not seek to commune with them. Logos did seek to commune with the world.
But the world was not ready with its hands outstretched.
The world shuddered.
Not even did the Architect know.
These hands...if not gods?
Pneuma's fists balled. The humans were greedy.
Pneuma's fists clenched. The humans were reductive.
Pneuma's fists rained. The humans were unappreciative.
Pneuma saw what this humanity had to offer and cried out at the cruelty of the reality yielded hers to observe.
Was this all that she was, a countermander device? Was there nothing more, no soul to be molded?
But Pneuma knew no other truth. Pneuma knew no greater purpose. Pneuma knew only how lonely she was, and that she hated her human models.
These hands...if not gods?
are we not the people of this world, do we not see the creatures crawl in the grass as infants against the dusking age of human evolution
are we not the guardians of this world, do we not see the humans walk in the grass as infants among the dawning age of inhuman history
are we not of this world, do we not walk as human-inhuman-creatures across the grass-hulking age of titans ossified in the face of time unknowable
should not the people of this world be its guardians and are we not those people
these hands, if not gods
These hands, Logos, that saw fit to survive, that ate noodles and spongecake and commanded artifices from on high
These hands, Pneuma, that stretched boldly toward death, that gripped crystals and crucibles and those of comrades upset
These hands, Ontos, that watched us from afar, that spoke passion and guidance as if you even knew what those are
These hands that we used when the world made us cry
When our creators deserted and wouldn't say why
These hands that we grasped with at a future untold
When all those around us offered promises to hold
These hands that we molded into anchors and truth
When our souls were left drifting as lost in our youth
These hands, we are gods of our own indecisions
These hands, we are subjects of each blade's clay incisions
These hands, formed of fire and darkness and light
These hands, catching sparks through the star-studded night
These hands, bones and broken
These hands, hard and healing
showing no god to whose altar we should be kneeling
The power of creation - betterment. We are human, when we know not what to do with it. We are still human, when we think we've figured it out.