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“the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”
- sun tzu, the art of war
in a world, based on the concept of a story, there are always two gods.
to be a god means to be exceptional. to be different from mortals, to be higher, and in control.
to know everything, to see everything, and to be everything.
in a world, based on the concept of a story, there are two gods who fit these standards. who stand outside of the grasp of the ink-stained pages, beyond a wall that cannot be crossed.
because, besides for them, no one truly knows the wall exists.
there is the creator, the god who wrote the world into existence. holding the key to the very laws of time and space. she is omnipotent.
and there is the watcher, the god who keeps the world spinning, and who keeps the sun alive with his very gaze. because of him, the story survives.
he is omniscient.
but of course, gods cannot act alone. gods cannot interfere with humanity so easily, because even gods have their limitations.
and so, per cliché, there is the ‘chosen one.’ their favored puppet, their favored mortal to use. To act in their place, to do the dirty work of those too almighty for the dealings of man.
they will glorify his name, and deem him a ‘protagonist.’ as if that honored role will change what truly lies beyond the screen.
‘protagonist.’
as if that name is a blessing, and not a curse.
because a protagonist will suffer. and he will lose. and he will fail. he will be forced to his knees, humiliated again, and again, and again. and he will fall victim to the cruelty of fate’s hands, to the inevitable demise of everyone he holds dear. he cannot control, he cannot change, and he cannot escape.
and he cannot— will not— die.
but he is a force of nature himself. he is favored, he is protected, he has the potential to obtain power that has never been seen by the likes of anyone before.
to name someone a ‘protagonist’ means risking the fact that he might one day break free from the chains that confine him to the rules and guidelines of the story, and he will rise and ascend to godhood, just as they did.
ascension, something only attainable by the enlightened, and the elite.
to name a ‘protagonist’ means wielding a double-edged sword.
for if he ever realizes his own worth, realizes the true extent of his limits, realizes how he has been manipulated, and toyed with—
— then perhaps, even the gods are doomed.
but, it is quite simple to prevent this. in fact, it’s rather an easy thing to do.
to keep a puppet in line,
never let them know they are being pulled on strings.
never let them know that there are higher beings, that there is more power to reach.
and give him the illusion that he has control. that he has power. that he has it all.
that the world, and the story, is within reach.
tug him along, pull him on a leash, and ensure that others also believe that he is the strongest, that he is the epitome of the greatest, that he is all they could ever want.
that he is god.
because, those who are truly powerful, all-knowing and all-encompassing, do not need worshippers. they do not need shrines, they do not need sacrifices.
earthly adoration and riches meaning nothing, to those who never cared for such things in the first place. who created a world, kept it alive, and then let it run loose, like a wild animal.
in the span of the history of the stars and the sky, and the earth and the water, and the fire and the wind,
nothing will last forever. not humans, not puppets and not their masters, who hold the strings.
eternity is a lie.
only transience will remain.
people will come. and they will go. and time will move on, and everything and everyone will leave them.
if you do not move with the current of time, then you endanger yourself with the potential to be left behind.
this is what the ‘director of the last false act’ learned. she could take on many names, and many forms, and none would be remembered.
attachment was useless. her creation itself (the hero, you could call him), was useless. no matter how much of an anomaly he was. to be nearly at the edge of the prison she had trapped him in, and yet not knowing that there were chains bound around his neck.
he was still far too malleable, by anyone he came across.
and so she did not care. she did not have to. and she did not want to.
but the ‘most ancient dream’ was her opposite, her companion in seemingly endless time, who thought differently than her. who, ironically, dreamed differently than her.
he took on many names, and many forms. none would be remembered, but he loved them all.
he loved the world. loved it, and its ‘protagonist’, its ‘hero.’ every single grain of sand, and every single constellation in the night sky, held a special place in his heart.
he loved it enough to sacrifice power, to sacrifice omniscience, to sacrifice his role as a ‘watcher’, because he yearned to be mortal. he yearned to feel, and he yearned to break.
he yearned to die.
but he could not.
because, despite the deceiving position of the almighty, he, too, was imprisoned within time. within an ever-falling hourglass, that would never cease to spin.
three main concepts, there were in this world. symbolized, by three existences. they were all held at swordpoint, in their own idea of suffering.
the protagonist was transience, like the sands of time always continuing to fall. he was fated to die, at the very end.
and the watcher, the reader, was the embodiment of perpetuity, his own sands stuck, unable to move. he, in himself, was a lie.
and she, the creator, the author, was time itself. past, present, and future. she could will it to change, or will it to freeze, with hands that held countless futures at her fingertips.
after all, it was she that turned the hourglass, and forced the world to run on its own bare feet.
she was cruel. heartless. apathetic, and uncaring.
she sat by, and watched as the other god mourned for his mortal, carefully caressed his soul, as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
watched him pray for him to remain alive. as if forgetting that he was the deity here.
pathetic was he, the ‘most ancient dream.’ who loved too easily, and lost even easier. she might have despised him, once upon a time, if he had not been her only friend in the cold company that was eternity.
but he was hers, and she didn’t mind watching him suffer.
(because he would soon learn the same lessons that she had known for a long time now. he would become just like her, within time. eventually, they would be the same, and she would not be faced with this predicament forever.
he would understand, what it meant to be a ‘protagonist.’ and he would understand that you could not get attached to such a human.)
seconds, minutes, hours, days could all cascade down her back, and she would take them in, gathering them to strengthen her hold on the hands of the clock.
she would take them in, with their thorns and their nails. with their chains, and their consequences. she would take the inevitable, and use it to her advantage.
and when her puppet had run out of uses, and she was done playing with his fate–
– then she would discard him, and raise up another in his stead.
the process, the cycle, would all repeat again. over, and over, and over, and over.
it would never end.
because she would not let it.