The Andhari Scholar
Chapter Three:
The Treatise of Lifespan, and the trickery of the Andhari Scholar
Their young one had been the creator of life, and by extension, the grandmother of death. She had been forbidden from speaking, stripped of her title, and even today to speak her name is to curse yourself to endless horrors. It is lucky, in a way, that no mortal recalls its syllables. It was cruel to her, for she had done only as bidden by her people, but she took the exile with pride and strength, and though she was Andhar, she cloaked herself in mortal form, let herself die a thousand thousand deaths, and more still, and never spoke against her people's ruling.
But that punishment did little to satisfy the Sombray's need to end, to kill, to clean. The Andhar had created filth, and the SOmbray had been sent from the nothing to tidy it away, like bustling parents to dirty children. And, like children seeking leniency, the Andhar bargained, but they were not children, and their words could persuade the sun to burn cold, the stars to cease their spinning. The Andhar were the greatest force that all existence had ever known, and even death itself could not hope to rival them, only to contain them.
The Mother of the Sombray, wisely, agreed to compromise. But the details of that agreement took lifetimes to create, every tiny contingency accounted for.
And, in the end, it was decided. When the creatures of dirt and blood that the Andhar had birthed reached the skill necessary to maintain themselves infinitely, and become unto the two Great Races, they would be capped. Their minds would falter under the weight, each created with specific, delicate weaknesses designed to fray and crumble. And they would die in soul, if not in body, and they were be lost to the strange world of the Sombray's creation, where they would be stripped into their basest parts, punished and rewarded.
But the Andhari were not fools. There must be a way out of this trap they had laid for themselves? They took their finest mind, their thinker and scholar, who lacked the young one's creativity, but had more than her ability to find and repair flaws, and the gave him this riddle.
All things must die, they said to him. How can we admit that death, and still let them live without fear of it?
It took endless passes of stars and galaxies as they developed the possibilities, and each time, they were rejected by the Sombray, and the Mother's patience grew thinner and thinner. Her children were allowed to continue their duty, but there was no reason to it, no satisfaction to be garnered. The Sombray are creatures of utmost and perfect order. And that was their failing.
Although they could not save their children, the Andhar had the benefit of freedom. And so, they demanded something that the silly Sombray could not comprehend. They had been designed for only one purpose, one goal. The concept of choice was nothing to them. It was not luxury or necessity, it was nonexistent. Sombray have no choice. They clean our worlds of that which would burden them. They are not evil, they cannot be evil. To be evil one must have the capacity for goodness and refuse it. The Sombray are incompatible with the very idea of it.
So, what was it to them, to their wise Mother, to agree? To let the silly mortals choose what fate befalls them? To let their wracked and ?refined souls decide which rewards and cruelties are best suited to their sinful, beatific lives. Perhaps, even, the best among them might be allowed to travel to the Nothing in between, and become Andhar or Sombray themselves.
And so, my little one, you see? All mortals die, in time enough, and only enough. Never too much, never too little. And when their life ends, they are punished only as much as they truly believe they deserve. They are blessed only as much as they can grant themselves. We make our own eternity. But, of course, that isn't your question either, is it?
No. You don't care to know how life ended. You still want to know how it began.
Well, there are Three Great Races, aren't there? Let us speak, then, of the Unmortal Djinni, the truest children of the Andhar, who in their own rights and time, learned the tricks of dealing with their own Sombray, and bargained for strength and power immeasurable long before the rest of our ancestors had even begun that most delicate process of tipping from protein to organism.
The Treatise of Lifespan, and the trickery of the Andhari Scholar
Their young one had been the creator of life, and by extension, the grandmother of death. She had been forbidden from speaking, stripped of her title, and even today to speak her name is to curse yourself to endless horrors. It is lucky, in a way, that no mortal recalls its syllables. It was cruel to her, for she had done only as bidden by her people, but she took the exile with pride and strength, and though she was Andhar, she cloaked herself in mortal form, let herself die a thousand thousand deaths, and more still, and never spoke against her people's ruling.
But that punishment did little to satisfy the Sombray's need to end, to kill, to clean. The Andhar had created filth, and the SOmbray had been sent from the nothing to tidy it away, like bustling parents to dirty children. And, like children seeking leniency, the Andhar bargained, but they were not children, and their words could persuade the sun to burn cold, the stars to cease their spinning. The Andhar were the greatest force that all existence had ever known, and even death itself could not hope to rival them, only to contain them.
The Mother of the Sombray, wisely, agreed to compromise. But the details of that agreement took lifetimes to create, every tiny contingency accounted for.
And, in the end, it was decided. When the creatures of dirt and blood that the Andhar had birthed reached the skill necessary to maintain themselves infinitely, and become unto the two Great Races, they would be capped. Their minds would falter under the weight, each created with specific, delicate weaknesses designed to fray and crumble. And they would die in soul, if not in body, and they were be lost to the strange world of the Sombray's creation, where they would be stripped into their basest parts, punished and rewarded.
But the Andhari were not fools. There must be a way out of this trap they had laid for themselves? They took their finest mind, their thinker and scholar, who lacked the young one's creativity, but had more than her ability to find and repair flaws, and the gave him this riddle.
All things must die, they said to him. How can we admit that death, and still let them live without fear of it?
It took endless passes of stars and galaxies as they developed the possibilities, and each time, they were rejected by the Sombray, and the Mother's patience grew thinner and thinner. Her children were allowed to continue their duty, but there was no reason to it, no satisfaction to be garnered. The Sombray are creatures of utmost and perfect order. And that was their failing.
Although they could not save their children, the Andhar had the benefit of freedom. And so, they demanded something that the silly Sombray could not comprehend. They had been designed for only one purpose, one goal. The concept of choice was nothing to them. It was not luxury or necessity, it was nonexistent. Sombray have no choice. They clean our worlds of that which would burden them. They are not evil, they cannot be evil. To be evil one must have the capacity for goodness and refuse it. The Sombray are incompatible with the very idea of it.
So, what was it to them, to their wise Mother, to agree? To let the silly mortals choose what fate befalls them? To let their wracked and ?refined souls decide which rewards and cruelties are best suited to their sinful, beatific lives. Perhaps, even, the best among them might be allowed to travel to the Nothing in between, and become Andhar or Sombray themselves.
And so, my little one, you see? All mortals die, in time enough, and only enough. Never too much, never too little. And when their life ends, they are punished only as much as they truly believe they deserve. They are blessed only as much as they can grant themselves. We make our own eternity. But, of course, that isn't your question either, is it?
No. You don't care to know how life ended. You still want to know how it began.
Well, there are Three Great Races, aren't there? Let us speak, then, of the Unmortal Djinni, the truest children of the Andhar, who in their own rights and time, learned the tricks of dealing with their own Sombray, and bargained for strength and power immeasurable long before the rest of our ancestors had even begun that most delicate process of tipping from protein to organism.