Prologue: The Words of an Old Man
Hácienzo Prezentó Fúchara
Deftéra, 8th of Nýchtes ton Ílion, Sūnatyne
16E 140535 Year of the Empyrean
The first sun rises slowly in the east, over the Tei Àkita Mountains, as the second quickly retreats behind the horizon to the northwest. Alone on this balcony, I peacefully bathe in the warmth of their light as the songs of the birds harmonize with the beautiful melody echoing through the halls of my mind. It is still early, but the city of Katharó Neró will be awake soon.
The sounds of boots on the cobblestone streets and the chatter of commerce in the market will drown out my concerto and thoughts. The souls of the Empyrean have enjoyed a peaceful Sávvato and honored their Gods on Kyriakí, but today is Deftéra: lunes, mandag, Montag, Monday. The first day of the mortal’s week of labor, and it is the first of mine. It has been almost ten thousand years since I met Julius Ares in the library for the first time, and now his son Demetrius waits to learn the true history of the Heavens. It is a humbling experience to explain one’s mistakes in detail, but we cannot learn if we refuse to revisit and address those situations. One cannot go back and change the past, but knowledge is a power that can be given to any soul willing to receive. It is always the children who are left to pick up the pieces after their elders’ wars, and with the wisdom bestowed upon them, they will be prepared for the challenge. Today, Demetrius takes the first step toward his destiny, and I take the next toward mine.
It is the eighth day of Nýchtes ton Ílion—Nights of the Suns, indeed. The days seem endless, and the nights are nonexistent, as the sky never fully loses its blue nor fades to black. It is hot! By far hotter than any other month of Sūnatyne. A bit much for my taste, but in another sixty days, it will be Fthinoporiní Avgí—Autumn’s Dawn: Hothozyne in the Heavens. I pray the souls of the Empyrean will survive to see the change of the leaves. But I have no time for silent thoughts that yearn for miracles. Prayers are useless without personal action, and I am responsible for this realm’s trajectory through existence.
My boots click softly on the marble floor as I exit my chambers and venture into the library. This beautiful compendium of stories has been my home for almost eighty thousand Empyrean years. I gently touch the spine of one of the leather-bound tomes that line the walls of the corridor. The wrinkly hand, like the symphony playing in my head, is not truly mine, nor are any of these tales that fill this building. I am merely the memory of this universe tasked with teaching the history of both this world and the next to any soul willing to listen to the words of an old man—Ki spirits, Empians, Nephilim, and Guardians alike. My goal is to arm them with the knowledge to battle the demons that hide in the shadows of their worlds and those that dwell within.
For sixteen eras and fifteen Guardians, I have played my role in this epic drama. However, the Chronicles of the Empyrean must come to an end. There are very few tales left to tell and even fewer to be written. Demetrius will be the last Angelopoulos to stand guard and the last of Aegis’s bloodline I will take on this journey through time and space. I will never forget the countless sacrifices his descendants made for this realm and the next: the battles they fought in the Heavens and within the depths of their minds. Their stories will always sit upon the shelves in the library, but those pages will never know them as I have known them: my friends…my family. Their influence will forever be woven into the essence of this realm.
However, it was not only the Angelopoulos family’s philosophical understanding of existence that has played a role in the design of the Empyrean. Iaspis’s hands molded the dirt of this world long before Aegis fell from Athainia. The countless cities nestled into the landscape came from the minds of all the Guardians, but the seasons of the Heavens are Ka’shānai, while the days and months are Athainian. The true connotation of the words spoken or written are only known by the soul who is speaking: the rest of universe can only do their best to understand. Translation is far from perfection even here in the Empyrean, for there are many words that only hold meaning in the dialect of their origin. And, as intended, the various heritages and cultures found throughout the cosmos have made the journey from the physical realm to the Empyreal Dimension. There are far too many minds for just one perspective on existence, and the same can be said for the concept of time. Each event through the history of the universe happens in its own time and place, but for the sake of continuity, every story in the library is viewed from the timeline of the Empyrean.
Right on cue, the sounds of the city begin to echo through the streets, drifting through the windows of the library and into my ears. Happiness is in the Heavens, as it should be, but it will not last: change is an important aspect of existence.