"Hang on, so you're telling us", said Max, his hands moving in circles before him, "that TJ might know something we don't?"
Lyn let out a quiet sigh, wishing what she said wasn't true. "That's pretty much the gist of it."
After lunch together in The Raven's Nest, the five of them made their hike up to Mr. Brighteyes' cabin. Surprisingly, Max had joined in for the meal: he was usually off-campus with his family at noon.
"Just a change of plans for today," he had said, back in The Raven's Nest, when Sander had asked. Said the words, and followed them off with a bite of his grilled-cheese sandwich, as though the simple statement was enough to explain the circumstances that led to his early arrival.
As they trekked their way through the woods, Lyn went on to tell them about TJ's phone conversation, recalling as much as she could from what she overheard, stringing his words as she remembered them into coherent sentences. But she hadn't told them yet about what she found in the book from the library: there was more weight, more urgency in TJ's phone call than a story she found in a battered paperback.
Besides, talking about it within the confines of the café, within TJ's earshot, would be foolish. Like an honest whisper to an enemy, a revelation of the worst kind.
It was only when they had entered the shelter of the forest, where no other ears but their own would hear the words they confided amidst the trees, that Lyn managed to ease up and tell them all she knew of TJ's conversation with the unknown caller.
"Question is," said Sander, "who was he talking to? Because this can go two ways, and we've only got a part of TJ's side of the conversation to help us find out."
"Well, let's see," said Jack. "There are the creeps"—he held out his index finger—"then there are the jerks." His middle finger unfolded from his hand. "Pick your poison, bruh."
"I'd pick neither," said Damien. "I'd rather have it that he's just TJ from The Raven's Nest, and nothing more. No sides, no suspicious phone calls, no stress." He heaved out a sigh. "Man, things were way easier when we were kids. Stupid, innocent kids."
"Not exactly my case, but still true," said Sander, glancing up at the pale gray gloom overhead.
Jack draped an arm over Sander's shoulders. Sander shook in surprise at the sudden contact, then relaxed and turned to his jock of a friend.
"Wish we could turn back time," sang Jack.
"—to the good old days," joined in Damien, catching drift of the familiar Twenty One Pilots tune.
A moment's silence. Then five voices came together and sang:
When our momma sang us to sleep, but now we're stressed out
Wish we could turn back time to the good old days
When our momma sang us to sleep, but now we're stressed out
"We're stressed out," sang Max, his voice a bright tenor, ever melodious, a ribbon of gold that swirled through the air. He shut his eyes momentarily, holding his right fist up to his mouth, an invisible microphone in hand.
Lyn laughed despite herself.
And they walked on, and sang, and Damien and Jack made feeble attempts at rapping Tyler Joseph's verses to their friends' comical delight.
And in the remaining minutes as they made their way to Mr. Brighteyes' cabin, everything didn't seem so bad, and life seemed a little less stressful.
Mr. Brighteyes unhooked his hand lantern from the wall, and stood before the door, one hand resting on the knob. He turned to the five youths who stood behind him, and said, "Is everyone ready?"
Jack's glance swept across the faces of his friends. Sander nodded in response to his unspoken question.
"We're ready," said Jack, ever the spokesperson.
"You sure you'll be okay?" said Damien, addressing his question to Mr. Brighteyes.
Mr. Brighteyes smiled. He nodded. "I'll be all right, Damien," he said. "Thank you for your concern." Then he turned to the others, to all five of them. "Let's get a move on now, shall we?"
"Remember your combat training resumes tomorrow afternoon," piped up Mr. Bato, before they could move any farther. He was leaning against the wall near the kitchen, playing absentmindedly with a foot-long weapon that looked like the ancient forefather of the modern-day butterfly knife, as though the swift motions of the blade in his hand were mere child's play. "Remember how to execute your punches, elbows strikes, palm strikes, groin kicks—"
"Relax, Mister Bato," said Jack, with a reassuring smile. "We didn't forget."
"Let's see about that," said Mr. Bato, the look on his face as austere as ever. "You all must prove it to me in your sparring sessions tomorrow, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mister Bato," the five replied in unison, now more out of habit than an actual mindful response. The expression on his face and tone in his voice no longer had any effect on them: they had gotten used to it over the past month.
"And," said Mr. Bato, halting them in their tracks once again.
They turned their attention back to him. Barely a couple minutes had passed since he last spoke, and barely did Jack hide the scowl that made its way to his face.
"Keep safe," said Mr. Bato, with a curt nod of his head. "Promise me you shall all return of sound mind."
The scowl on Jack's face faded, and he felt in his heart a slight pleasant swell.
"They're with me," Mr. Brighteyes assured the combat and weaponry teacher.
"The same goes for you, my most revered teacher," said Mr. Bato, the tone in his voice a mingle of solemnity and concern. "I hope you return well."
Damien gave Mr. Bato a lazy salute. "Aye, aye, Captain."
"Are we all set to leave, then?" said Mr. Brighteyes, his glance sweeping across the faces of his five young students.
This time Sander spoke: "We're ready."
Mr. Brighteyes turned back to the door, turned the knob to the right, and pushed the door open. He held his hand lantern up, a blue glow emanating from the flames that sprung up within the glass walls. He stepped forward, out onto the front porch, into the gloom.
Then the five youths followed, filing out the doorway, one by one.
Damien was the first to step out, and he was the first to catch sight of a deranged man charging in his direction, a blade held overhead, ready to strike.
Damien screamed, and ducked, and shoved himself to the side. Yet the man kept charging forward, paying Damien absolutely no mind, until his sword collided into another, a clang echoing amidst the chaos. Damien scrambled to his feet, his eyes turned to two men fighting, blade against blade. Then he felt a hand grasp his forearm, pulling him into a circle of familiar blue light.
"Stick close to the group," said Mr. Brighteyes, giving him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
Damien realized then that Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn had somehow huddled around Mr. Brighteyes before he did.
And with his eyes wide and his mouth agape, Damien looked around. Everything surrounding them was pure chaos. Fires burned at varying points of the field they stood in, illuminating the night in a dim orange glow. Metal clashed against metal, the sound echoing over and over again amidst the noise. The voices of men and women rose into a cacophony of battle cries and screams and sobs.
Damien swore he saw an arrow pierce straight into someone's chest, and whoever the poor man was dropped dead in an instant. He flinched at the sight, and quickly looked away.
Then he turned to Mr. Brighteyes, and said, "That, that sword could've killed me," his voice coming up a couple octaves higher than his regular pitch. He almost sounded like a prepubescent boy.
"No, it wouldn't," said Mr. Brighteyes, nonchalantly. "He and the weapon would've simply passed right through you. Might tickle a bit, though, but that is all you will ever feel. And this is a simulation, remember? Nothing can hurt you here. Oh, and just so you know that wasn't a sword," he added. "It's a bolo. Pretty useful during harvest as well, and cutting those pesky weeds out—"
"Mr. Brighteyes, where are we?" interjected Sander, unaware his left hand held on tight to the loose long fabric of Mr. Brighteyes' coat.
"It doesn't look like it, but we're right where we left off," said Mister Brighteyes, pointing over to something in the distance.
The five youths turned to the general direction of his index finger. A huge black tree stood on elevated ground, its massive branches gnarled in its very nature, its foliage a rich chaos of leaves that fluttered in the breeze. Strangely, in the mayhem, it looked rather peaceful.
"This moment, however, happened almost a month after Apollyon lured the First Men and Women into breaking their bonds with Elohim, almost a month after the enemy granted them their desire for full control of the Essence," said Mr. Brighteyes. "This here"—he raised his arms, gesturing to the place around them, one hand still holding on to the lantern—"is the aftermath."
Just then, a huge ball of earth and fire sailed across the sky, and, with a resonating boom, crashed and burned onto a plot of land a distance away from where they stood. The five youths held on to each other tighter, as the earth shook violently beneath their feet. There were screams, of pain and of terror, and a handful of silhouettes were seen running out of the inferno, tongues of flame licking their bodies black and bloody, before the expected inevitability: the doomed individuals then dropped onto the ground in a dreadful kind of stillness, the fires burning on amongst the corpses and the grass.
"Okay," said Max, his voice rising as though he were asking a question.
The other four said nothing, but stared on in shock. Sander could feel bile rise up his throat; he swallowed it down.
"How," said Jack, breaking the silence, "how did it get this bad?"
"Looks like we're in a war zone," muttered Damien.
"That's because we are," said Mr. Brighteyes, the tone in his voice grave. He sighed, and continued, "You remember when I told you that Elohim imposed limits upon the Essence of Crystallians to protect them from each other and themselves?"
"Yes," his pupils said in unison, before another ball of fire soared overhead, crashed down, and shook the earth upon impact.
"As I said," said Mr. Brighteyes, gesturing to the cacophony with his free hand, "the aftermath of their newfound freedom."
"What happened exactly?" asked Damien, before he could think better of it. He knew he shouldn't have asked. Mr. Brighteyes looked miserable: his eyes had a hard look to them, their usual spark gone; his voice carried an undertone of frustration and mourning when he spoke.
Yet Mr. Brighteyes answered, "Within a few weeks, the First Men and Women drew every one of their people to Apollyon's lie. They would bring their people under the Tree Between, to pledge allegiance to Apollyon, to free themselves from Elohim. Then, they lost control." A pause. Another ball of fire, another crash, another couple seconds' earthquake, another set of screams and burning, flailing bodies. "They gave in to their selfish impulses. For example, a man hurts another by accident—let us say, an accidental injury upon the swing of a blade whilst harvesting—and the other, instead of giving his brother a calm response for such a small, inadvertent action, threatens to kill him using the power of his Essence. The other then feels threatened, and attacks his brother. With that, the argument brews into a full-on fight, sometimes even a battle to the death. And this cycle of vengeance continues, on and on and on . . ."
"And just for—" Jack ran a hand down his face, and groaned. "Man, these people are petty."
Sander said, "You're not, you're not exaggerating . . . are you?" He looked closely at Mr. Brighteyes, skepticism etched into Sander's features, his green eyes examining the teacher's face to see if he could catch even an upward twitch of his lips.
Mr. Brighteyes shook his head. Something somewhere blew up, another loud boom, shaking the ground once again. It casted a momentary orange light upon Mr. Brighteyes' face. Neither corner of his lips moved up, even for a fraction of a moment; the blue in his eyes was deep and dark and seemed to swirl dangerously, like a quiet storm raging within.
"What I told you actually happened between two Soleilian men," said Mr. Brighteyes. "It resulted in a fight to the death, and, yes, someone died, and his family swore revenge and killed every one of the other's family."
"Dang," Max said, softly.
Lyn looked at him. It surprised her how clearly they could hear each other amidst the noise. And maybe that was precisely the thing with these simulations, she thought—everything around them was some sort of movie in 5-D (if 5-D was what you would describe a film with special effects so incredibly convincing and lifelike), and the rules of logic didn't apply to the spectators.
Jack asked, "So how did that breed to an all out war? I mean, it was only between those two families, right? How did it get to this?"
"This," said Mr. Brighteyes, referring to the present chaos, "had nothing to do with what happened between the two Soleilian men and their families. This war between the peoples of Crystalline and the discord between the two Soleilian men, however, are of a similar root, grown from the same seed of self-worship."
"But you said they came to worship Apollyon, right?" said Damien, his question loud and clear over a peal of explosions and clanging metal and screams. "So wouldn't it be them worshipping him, swearing their allegiance to him, that might've caused all this?"
"No, Damien, it isn't," said Mr. Brighteyes, with a shake of his head. "Look deeper into this. Think. There is more than what the eye sees, but what the mind perceives and what the heart feels.
"The people's turn to Apollyon is only a mere symptom to a greater problem. Mortals are often mistaken that the root of sin lies in the Enemy himself, that he makes people sin, that his temptations, his advances are the only ingredient to transgression. No! It is pride, the lack of love for others, the love of the egocentric kind, a subtle dangerous poison to oneself—this selfishness, this entitlement that all mortals possess—a natural inclination. It is in the worship of the self, not in the very worship of the Enemy. It is in the choice to satisfy one's own pleasures, without regard for what is right, without regard for the welfare of others, that sin is perfected and consummated. Thus, the venom of sin, the consequences, not only poisons oneself, but spills onto others.
"And from this we get a clearer understanding of what transpired, of what led to this war between the peoples of Crystalline.
"As you all know, Apollyon is the ultimate deceiver. He studies his selected victims before he attacks, and when he attacks, he does so in the language of lies. He crafts them bespoke to the mentality of his victims, to their natural inclinations, to their weaknesses and deepest desires. He has studied both man and Crystallian, and is perfectly aware of a similarity that pervades people from all worlds: it is an innate desire to be selfish, to want to satisfy the desires of the self, but the mere satisfaction of the self only results in the lowest level of fulfillment. Yes, one may feel the ecstasy derived from such satisfaction for a moment, and only for a moment, before the ardent flame extinguishes itself to a spark, then to nothing, then the desire for more sinks in, and takes root, and grows in subtlety within one's innermost being."
"An unfathomable well," murmured Lyn.
"Precisely, Lyn," said Mr. Brighteyes. He paused for a moment. There was a burst of red light, and a thunderous crash. Then the ground shook beneath them again, and screams pierced the air again, like another layer over the existing noise. "An unfathomable well," he echoed in agreement.
"So you're saying," Lyn went on, "that ever since Apollyon granted them complete control of their Essence, they wanted more?"
"Yes."
Max shook his head, as though he were trying to shake off a thought that clung to his brain. "But that doesn't make sense," he said. "It seems to me that once you're given unlimited power at your full disposal there's nothing more you could ever want. I mean, come on, unlimited power, plus full control. No limits, no Elohim to stop them from doing whatever they want. It's basically anarchy. What would they want more than that?"
Damien shrugged. "More power?"
"That's right, Damien," said Mr. Brighteyes, giving the stocky brown boy a glance and a nod. "More power."
"That was just a—"
"—guess? A halfhearted joke? I know, but you're right. They wanted more power. And Apollyon fooled them again into wanting more than they already had, or rather he introduced them to a power beyond the scope of the Essence."
"And that is?" asked Jack, over the noise of clanging metals and indistinguishable voices and their incomprehensible sounds. There was a scarlet light that soared above them, and a crash, and Jack quickly grasped on to Damien's shoulder as the ground trembled beneath them.
"Power over their fellow Crystallians," said Mr. Brighteyes. He released a somber sigh. "Elohim formed the First Men and Women before any other Crystallian, and made them leaders over their people. I remember telling you over the last simulation that they all once lived in peace, that they truly loved—not only their own brethren, but such love they had for their own flesh and blood was manifested for the other peoples as well—"
"I'm guessing Apollyon corrupted that part of them, too," said Sander.
"He did," said Mr. Brighteyes, firelight illumining the grave expression upon his face. "He turned them against each other, met each of the First Men and Women in secret, told them vile things about their fellow Crystallians."
Jack turned his eyes away from the sight of one man stabbing another repeatedly, shuddering at yet another scene of the unceasing bloodbath around them. "Like what?" he asked, eyes closed, attempting to wash off the memory of what he just saw.
"Apollyon first deceived the First Men and Women of Tiern, Soleil, and Tesoro. Said to them the Kadasan and Moanian people are savages, barbaric creatures, utterly uncivilized vermin; that one were to see a glimpse of such primitive nature in the very color of their flesh, in the marks they have etched upon their skin."
Damien then said, "Man, that's just—that's racist."
"The color of one's skin does not dictate someone's intellect or heart," said Sander. "And it doesn't give anyone the right to look down on anyone different from themselves, whether it be appearance or culture."
Mr. Brighteyes nodded in agreement. "Elohim creates every mortal in careful precision to his own special design. Gives each of them a soul, a set of traits unique to every individual. Crafts each and every one of them in love. And it is in love that the Creator looks upon his creation, none more superior nor inferior than the other. And you're right, it doesn't give anyone the right to look down on anyone different from themselves."
"Racism, huh?" Max murmured to himself. He pondered over the concept—racism, discrimination, xenophobia—allowed those words to echo in his headspace. There was the chorus of distant screaming again, but Max paid it no mind, exerted some mental effort into tuning out the cacophony of external noise from his train of thought. There was something familiar about all this. Like some déjà vu situation. He just had to dig a little deeper, into the past, into history . . .
Then it clicked. Max's eyes widened at the realization.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Max clapped his hands together, made some frantic motions with his arms. He would've jumped around if he hadn't realized he almost knocked Lyn in the face with his elbow. "Sorry—Oh, shooot! Duuude! It's like our history's bleeding into theirs."
"What?" yelled Jack, over the boom of another distant explosion.
Lyn's hazel eyes met Max's blue ones with a knowing look. He raised his eyebrows; she raised hers in return.
"They tried to conquer them," said Lyn, turning to the others. "Tiern, Soleil, and Tesoro. Like England and Spain and Portugal. They tried to conquer the other tribes they saw as uncivilized, and they tried to, well, not civilize them, really. More like reform their culture to something more attuned to their own."
"So I'm guessing the other two tribes fought back," said Sander, looking to Mr. Brighteyes for a response. "I mean, it's only natural for them to do so, to defend themselves from any threats against their freedom."
"They did," said Mr. Brighteyes. "However, Apollyon told them things as well."
"And what did he tell them?" asked Sander, no longer looking around, keeping his eyes on either Mr. Brighteyes or any of his friends. He didn't want to see anything that would probably result in him throwing up his lunch and breakfast—no, thank you.
"After the people of Tiern, Soleil, and Tesoro formed an alliance against the tribes of Moana and Kadasan, after they made their initial attack, Apollyon spoke to the First Men and Women of Moana and Kadasan as they hid from their new enemies. He insinuated to them the idea that they were to conquer than to be conquered."
"And so started the war," murmured Damien.
"The first phase of the First Crystallian War," said Mr. Brighteyes. "Then Apollyon turned them against each other, and so began the second phase. This time, however, he appeared to them in dreams, told them that the others' true intention is to conquer them next and claim the known world of Crystalline for themselves."
"This Apollyon guy's messed up in the head, real bad," said Jack, quickly tearing his eyes away from a group of men who had lifted up a lone enemy off the ground with their Essence, a momentary picture of a man hanging by an invisible noose. And with forces unseen, they were now tearing him limb from limb. "That's messed up."
Staring at the ground, Lyn said, "It's frustrating—albeit depressing—to think how Apollyon brought about this chaos, how he fooled them all so easily despite these people probably knowing Elohim's nature from the beginning. Yet, thinking about it, Apollyon's not the only one to blame: the people of Crystalline brought this upon themselves as well. They had a choice, and they made the wrong decision, and they screwed their entire world up because of it."
Damien muttered under his breath, "Yeah. Makes you wonder where Elohim is in all of this."
"He'll be around in a bit," said Mr. Brighteyes, glancing at the huge gnarled tree. He looked down at his watch. "Perhaps, at about . . . now."
For a fraction of a moment, a patch of sky turned brilliant white, a strange glow amidst the black clouds. Then, as quick as a flash of lightning, a beam of light cut through the shadows and struck the ground. There was an energy, pure and fluorescent, that burst from the middle of the field, from the dark gnarly tree, and it swept through the place in waves, lifting people up off the ground and sending bodies crashing back down. Masses of grass were torn off the earth, flying with the wind and light.
Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn raised their arms over their faces, shut their eyes instinctively. They did not move. They did not speak. They only stood, with their hands over their shut eyes, and waited.
The world was white, a brilliant unfathomable blankness, and there was no other sound but an endless stretch of deafening silence.
Then the world grew dimmer, painted ever so slowly in a tint of its prior stygian hues. And just as slowly, eyes opened, and arms lowered from nervous faces.
Damien and his friends looked on, and watched, with eyes wide and with no word spoken, a large white glowing figure tread down from where the tree stood, and still stood, to the base of the low hill.
Then it—no, not it—he spoke, in a voice that made the world tremble:
THE PEOPLE OF CRYTSALLINE HAVE TURNED TO WICKEDNESS—HAVE BECOME CORRUPT IN THEIR WAYS—HAVE SUNK DEEP INTO THE PUTRID SEAS OF THEIR SINS. THEY HAVE TURNED AWAY FROM THEIR CREATOR, PLEDGED THEIR ALLEGIANCE TO APOLLYON AND TO THE SPIRIT OF SELF-INDULGENCE. LOVE—WHAT IS LOVE TO THEM? THERE IS NO LOVE, BUT PRIDE—PRIDE, PRIDE, PRIDE BE THEIR DOWNFALL AS IT DID THE SERVANT OF ELOHIM, THE MORNING STAR.
WICKEDNESS, WRETCHED BEINGS. YOU HAVE SHATTERED OUR BOND; YOU HAVE BECOME FILTH IN MY SIGHT. YOU ARE NO LONGER PURE, AND YOU ARE NO LONGER MY CHILDREN. YOU ARE BROKEN. I SHALL PUT AN END TO THIS MADNESS AND THIS DESOLATION. I SHALL PUT AN END TO YOU ALL.
FAREWELL, CRYSTALLINE. IT IS IN MY GREATEST SORROW THAT ALL SHALL END THIS WAY.
Elohim lifted his arms into the air, and the ground shook beneath their feet, and stones and clumps of grass, blotched red from blood spilt, rose up off the dirt floor, shattering to pieces midair, leaving fragments and particles to float heavenward. The people of Crystalline sprang to their feet, and hastened their steps away from the huge stygian tree and Elohim's lucid form. Running, limping, hands placed upon bleeding injuries, a myriad of Crystallians plunged themselves blindly through the light, bumping into each other, fighting their way through, in an attempt to make it back out into the shadows of the night, to escape Elohim's imminent wrath—all to no avail.
Max's eyes widened. He turned to Mr. Brighteyes. "Is he serious?" he yelled, the tone in his voice a mingle of shock and confusion. "Elohim can't just wipe out the world like that, right? I mean, isn't he supposed to be good and kind and . . ." He trailed off, then.
Mr. Brighteyes said nothing.
There was a sad look in Max's blue eyes. "He's really gonna do it, is he?"
"This is too harsh for punishment," said Sander. He looked around, watched the cacophony of movement surrounding them. "This world is young, too young," he went on, "and so are the people in it. They can still change, and learn, and be better people. It—It doesn't have to be this way."
Mr. Brighteyes kept his silence. All he did was look down at his watch, eyes fixed on the second hand as it ticked by.
"So that's just it?" said Jack. Then to Mr. Brighteyes, "So what's the point of showing us all this if it's just gonna end up in nothing but destruction?"
Mr. Brighteyes glanced up, and for a fraction of a moment they expected an answer, only for him to look down at his watch again.
Damien didn't say anything, but stared on, his eyes fixed on Mr. Brighteyes. Then he began to think. Wondered why this man broke down right after the last simulation. Wondered how he could just stand there, nonchalant, amidst the concerns of his friends. Questioned why, among all moments they'd had, this was the time Mr. Brighteyes didn't seem to care. Watched this strange man stare down at his watch as if he was—
Damien smiled a lopsided smile, then, and he said, with an air of confidence, "This isn't the end, is it?" He chuckled. "So, what are we waiting for, Mr. Brighteyes? A plot twist? Divine intervention?"
A smile crept to Mr. Brighteyes' lips. "Actually"—he looked up from his watch; there was a certain sparkle swirling in the blue of his eyes, hopeful and triumphant—"yes."
Out of the sky there came another beam of light, shooting from the heavens to the earth, a ray of blue fluorescence cutting through the flood of white enveloping the place. Then the light, just as quickly as it had come, transformed itself to the glowing shape of a man, and the light-man reached for Elohim's arms and pulled them down. "NO," yelled the blue radiance. Everything that had begun to float, everything that had been drifting up midair, all fell back into place.
"Who is that?" asked Max, turning to Mr. Brighteyes, before any of his friends could get the words out of their mouths.
"His son," replied Mr. Brighteyes. "Elohim's son, the Prince of Light."
"Elohim's son?" Lyn echoed, whispered, to herself.
WHAT IS THIS YOU ARE DOING? Elohim said, hands still bound by his son's. THESE PEOPLE HAVE BROKEN THE BOND BETWEEN US AND THEMSELVES. THEY HAVE SINNED, AND IN THEIR SINS THEY HAVE PERISHED. NO LONGER IS THERE ANY TRUE LIFE WITHIN THEM. THEIR SPIRITS ARE DEAD, BOUND FOR THE GRAVE OF ETERNAL FIRE AND ETERNAL SUFFERING.
THERE IS A WAY, FATHER, said Elohim's son. THERE IS A WAY TO SAVE THEM, TO REDEEM THEIR SOULS FROM APOLLYON AND THE REALM BELOW.
AND IN WHAT WAY SHALL THEY BE SAVED? said Elohim, his voice deep and grave.
IN TIME, said the Prince of Light, I SHALL SAVE THEM MYSELF. THAT I SWEAR TO YOU, FATHER.
YOU SWEAR, MY SON?
I SWEAR IT ON MY VERY LIFE.
VERY WELL, THEN, said Elohim, gently pulling his hands away from his son's grasp. AND SO IT SHALL BE.
And with that, two beams of light shot up off the ground, into the blackened sky above. Then all was dark was once again, and everything faded before the eyes of the human spectators, the scene torn apart in a manner so quick and noiseless it looked as if everything simply evaporated. Dust floated about in the void of nothingness, a whirlwind of particles spinning about the five youths and their teacher; then it spun up and away, higher and higher, deeper into oblivion, until the shadows disappeared, replaced by a flood of muted pale daylight.
They now stood before Mr. Brighteyes' cabin, beneath a sky of clouds and no sun, in the gloom of late September.
A moment's silence. Nothing but the soft whistling of the wind, the gentle rustle of leaves and pine needles around them. Then—
"They died," said Sander, almost in a whisper, unsure of what he was saying. "They died," he repeated, more to himself.
"They didn't die," said Jack, perplexed. "We saw it ourselves. Elohim didn't kill them. His son came just in time to stop him from wiping them all out."
"No," said Sander, quietly, yet in the silence of everything else they all heard him. "That's not the death I'm talking about."
"Then what death?" asked Jack, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "We all know at the end of it all they're still alive and kicking somewhere."
"Elohim was talking about another death," said Lyn. She looked to Sander, and Sander gave her a nod to go on. "He said they died the moment they traded their bond with Elohim for complete control over their Essence. The moment they swore allegiance to Apollyon, something happened, something went wrong. And I don't think he was talking about the physicality of death. He said something about their souls. Something about their souls being dirty and broken and dead. Something about their souls being bound for eternal fire and torment."
"They're damned to hell," said Damien. "That's basically it."
Lyn nodded. "Yeah."
"And that is the very death which I have mourned for eons," said Mr. Brighteyes. In his right hand was the lantern, and it no longer glowed, no longer burned with the brilliant blue flame that lit their way through the simulations.
"So you're saying," said Max, "they died some sort of spiritual death?"
"A spiritual death, yes," confirmed Mr. Brighteyes. "A more horrible death than the death of the body."
"So how's it worse?" asked Damien, arms folded over his chest. "I mean, there's no worst case scenario than dying, right? 'Cause then you're finished, and there's nothing more you could do about it. What could be worse than that?"
"The death of the flesh is only temporary," said Mr. Brighteyes, the tone in his voice grave. "Once you die, your time in the physical world, whatever world that is, is over. Spiritual death, however, is sempiternal. Your soul outlasts the flesh, and after your physical death you're destined for either Elysium, the Realm Above, or Sheol, the Realm Below, where your soul will dwell for eternity."
"An eternal destiny," murmured Damien. He gave off a chuckle, without any hint of actual humor. "Looks like they're all screwed."
"But Elohim's son," said Sander. "He said he's going to find a way to save them. Did he—"
Mr. Brighteyes shook his head. "Not that he didn't," he said, catching the mournful looks that came across their faces. "Just not yet. The time hasn't come, and the end of this story is yet to be written in stone."
Max heaved a loud sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."
"So," said Jack, "will this be the last time we get to go through these simulations?"
Mr. Brighteyes smiled, then chuckled. "Glad to know you're all enjoying our little field trips," he said. "I assure you this won't be our last. There is so much to learn of Crystalline—its people, their stories, their cultures. I find your knowledge and understanding of their world equally as important as your knowledge and skill on combat and weaponry.
"Your training resumes tomorrow, but remember from now on there will be breaks in between, to give time for our next simulation trips. I plan to tour you around the world of Crystalline, across the lands. To talk to you about the people, to show you who they are. To immerse yourselves even for a few hours in the lives of the people of Kadasan, Moana, Tiern, Soleil, and Tesoro." A pause, a glance that swept across the faces of the five youths. "Sounds good?"
"Sounds good to me," said Jack, with a smile and a small nod of approval. He turned to his friends. "Hey," he said, eyebrows raised, hands lifted up, "don't tell me I'm the only one excited for our next field trip."
Sander shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. "We'll be looking forward to it, Mister Brighteyes," he said. Then more to himself, "There's a strange world out there we've yet to know."