A Jolly Adventure

Light flooded the residence of the Prince, coating his entire body. It was a splendid light, a pure light, a truth-seeking light that fell upon the virtuous. When faced with such light, it coated not only the flesh, but the mind; vitality flooded his exhausted bones after a mere moment of basking within it. Such a light was the pride of the Sun, bringing reason and comprehension to the torpid ocean from which this mortal plane arose. It must be praised; ten thousand rituals would not suffice to encompass its magnitude; they would be performed regardless.

He felt it stream in his eyes, granting him clean sight. He felt it wrap around his bones, providing strength enough to leap in the mountains. He felt it stream into his lips, and they ached to sing hymns to the gods. This light so dazzled him that nothing could be seen beyond it. In a mere moment, his entire existence had been transformed into light. No sound could reach him here, only an infinitude of comfort. Wind blew across the plains, causing the grass beneath to tremble. The horses shook their manes and looked towards the sky. All these were visible to him in the blinking of an eye. They disappeared immediately afterward; he needed nothing but the light.

What was the purpose of this sublime moment? Was it not yet another Maya, softening the mind and weakening the heart with its timeless beauty? The opposite could be true as well, making it a brief glimpse at the Absolute. That which a million distractions have distracted the mind from—could it be subtly revealed to him now?

The Prince scratched his ear.

He was the Punyapurusa, his every action was ordained by the gods. No one could challenge his cultivation, every enemy that rose against him would be trampled beneath his mount. Such a warrior was he that even the fiercest Rakhasa would feel terror course through their arms in a duel, rendering them dumb. In a single strike he could shatter the skull of a wrongdoer, for such was the duty of his illustrious caste. His lips always enclosed just words, comforting the meek and humbling the foul in a single arbitration. Such was his might that even the harshest Yaksha would smile when appraising him. He was beloved by his people for his peerless character and charity. Such was this charity that-

	"What purpose is there in endless ornamentation and praises without purport? I ask you, how could the presentation of this skin-clad being as peerless have any merit, when his 'virtue' is as transient as a babe lost in the desert? Is he generation, is he the guide to the worldly mysteries? Is Brahman itself? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps all of this is true, yet he understands nothing. This blinded vessel is deluded by Maya, so how could he comprehend Atman? Hark, wait a little, and perhaps this may be ameliorated."

Thus spoke the Aide to the Prince's right ear.

A hand directed his vision to the leaf in the center of the residence. Was it his, or the Aide's? The hand was heeded, and he found himself before a leaf.

Atop it was a lone morsel of meat. It, too, was bathed in the light, and its shimmering veneer filled the eyes of the Prince. A mere glance of this object sufficed to satiate his hunger. How, he wondered, would eating it be like>

	You should it eat," spoke the Aide, again to his right ear.

He wondered whether he should eat it. It seemed and appropriate course of action. He picked it up–and what a pleasure he felt!

He could feel its gaze, true as an arrow and firm as a trident. It filled him with unknowable emotions; his head spun as if struck, and his arms trembled. He saw within it an endless stream of eyes, gazing at him with dewy reverence. All emotion, all form, all truth (or was it untruth?) could be seen within this petty morsel. Why, then, was it still without him?

He consumed the morsel.

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The sky smiled upon the earth, and the Goddess defended her creations from the tribulations of her lamp. In other words, her protective palm shielded the City from excessive heat.

	"It is a pleasant day, is it not?" remarked the Aide.

He was a mysterious creature, who claimed to have never been born, only created (what pedantry!) This claim needed no justification, for his distinctive appearance sufficed as reasoning. His flesh was of the darkest complexion; darker than ink itself. Its darkness seemed fathomless, yet not terrible. It was a comforting abyss, accompanied by a learned temperament–was it for this reason that the Lord of the City trusted him implicitly?

	"A perfect day for strolling, or for war/ My father must be pleased," replied the Prince. "And you–are you pleased? Your age and mood seem to forever be in motion. so one can know nothing of your true thoughts."

This caused the Aide to laugh.

	"I hope, my Prince, that you do not find my honor as temporary as the waves. Perhaps I may be inconstant in character, but I remain forever loyal."

	"That is no answer, your still avoid my query with delicacy. Well, let us leave that be, for we have arrived."

This was true, for they had indeed arrived at their destination. It was a long, cramped road, one filled with industrious activity. Compared to the typical brown mundanity the brickwork that comprised the City, it was a veritable palace of color. Merchants occupied brick cubicles along the path, places specifically reserved for the sales of their wares.

And what wares they were! Freshly produced bricks were sold alongside terracotta toys, placed there to entice accompanying children. Ochres of the richest red filled pots, alongside curios from farthest Mesopotamia. And the bangles! There were enough bangles to please even the most avaricious queen. The best were set in gold and studded with amber, while the lesser items were homely creations of good terracotta. Among the articles were even cowrie-shell bangles, taken from the cities near the Southern Sea. Such treasures were highly valued.

The only significant absence which the Prince could find was the lack of a Brahmin communing with the public in the hopes of attracting attention to their tem- but hold on. What was this malaise that filled his mind?

He recalled, now, that he had no recollection of ever hearing the term "Brahmin" before. How could this be? For a few moments, he was certain–absolutely so–that he recognized the term to some extent. If this were to be true, and not a mere delusion, then...

	Wherefore are you so grave in face, my Prince? Does something concern you? Pray, tell it to me, and I will aid you." The Aide was ever courteous.

	"It is nothing more than a passing sensation, yet it grips me thoroughly. I ask you, do you have any recognition of the term 'Brahmin'? It appears on my lips, though its meaning I know not."

Here the Aide paused in thought for a few moments, then replied,
	"If my memory is faithful, then I believe 'Brahmin' refers to a member of the barbarian priestly caste."

	"The Aryans? But they are our enemies! My father marches out to give them battle at this very time, so how could thoughts of them appear in this civilized place?"

The Aide tilted his head towards him, and his eyes glinted in the manner of stones by the Sarasvati.

	"'Civilized' you say? A frightening conceit, civilization! It enraptures the heart, though concentration of people, and it enraptures the eyes through driving them to desire. Simply observe this street! It was originally a mere path to the Siva-lingam, embarked upon by the pious. Then, a cunning spirit brought enterprise here by the sale of paphernalia. This was a grand success, and his comrades set up their fortifications here. They thrive off of this region, and the City itself now gives them designated stalls in exchange for their fine taxes."
	"I ask you, how different is this behavior from that of the nomads? They, too, seek only opportunity in a prosperous environment."

While this variety of peculiar statement was not unexpected from the dark-skinned one, it still drove the Prince to indignation.

	"The difference lies in our ancestry and histories. Ever since the dawn of the Cities, the Seven Rivers have been under our dominion, and our culture has permeated the land. These upstarts bring nothing but their insect-drone of a tongue, and they desire only two things: to seize our land, and to emulate us."

	"Well said, very well said! There exists, however, another interpretation. How can you be certain that this City is more connected to the land than the barbarians. It could be the prosperity of your subjects only continues due to a higher will. For, ultimately, the differences you speak of between them and the Aryans are guaranteed through power, and power alone."

	"Consider the bangles which fill this commercial mass. What value could such things have ever possibly possessed, unless a taste for them grew through ages of continued interaction among the people of the Seven Rivers. Are you not indebted to the land itself for allowing you to maintain stability sufficient to generate such tastes?"

	"It is not the land, but the Goddess who protects the Cities, and it is she who ensures our welfare.

	"And if fortune turns, plunging the Cities in despair? Power is the sole force that guarantees power, and thus–but you are enraged; you feel for your dagger! Remember, my dear Prince, that I am merely your humble companion, and I desire nothing but to provide you a princely education. Such an education must challenge its recipient in its content at times."

The Prince ground his teeth, and returned his weapon back to its sheath. Searing flames burnt through his blood, bringing wrah the equal of... who?

No, he could not afford to concern himself with these fleeting thoughts, lest the City be forgotten in the effort. His duty was to defend it, so he would defend it utterly–through speech and action alike.

	"I have confidence that the Goddess defends us not merely through faith, nor through abstractions of power, but through law. Our existence is guaranteed through the maintenance of order: it must be so, lest we devolve to squabbling apes. And this order–does it not have value? Through enforcing a virtuous law in the world, civilization is allowed to be spread. Even if its source were to be–and this is but a possibility–lost, the memory of order, of peace, would last forevermore in these lands. This immortality must surely be the true gift of the Goddess,"

	"So you have been initiated into the view of a Mystery, have you? Splendid, that will make the coming events easier for you to understand."

	"Whatever do you mean by 'com-"

	"Ah, this discussion has led to the elusion of our true goal. Were not you, my Prince, desirous of witnessing the flogging today?"

The Aide was once again helpful, and the Prince started in alarm.

	"Your words are true! How convenient it was that we were previously speaking of justive, for we may now see the fruits of jurisprudence."

He hastened towards the Siva-lingam, ignoring the homage of the masses.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In short order, the Prince and his companion arrived before the site of the great stone. It was raised on a platform of whitewashed brick, gazing out towards each of the four roads which led to it. I was made of ancient granite, hewn into its present state by unknown hands. Idol worship was not favored by the people of the Cities, but the priesthood made a rare exception in favor of this splendid artifact.

Its shape was phallic, intended to invoke fertility and bring might to the City. Within it rested the god himself, and only the priesthood knew the secret chants to appease his burgeoning rage. When the sign of the one-horned horse was raised, they would come forward and whisper these rites.

Now, however, the sign of the lame ox was raised. Its true significance was reserved to the elites, but all knew that it announced the commencement of a punishment.

What an exciting diversion it was. The Prince smiled contentedly, for he had arrived at the perfect time. Provided the finest vieweing spot, he observed the idol in its awesome force, and the priests waving their pictograms of the lame ox. Every road but the northern one thronged with people, all here to observe the flogging. Despite the circumstances, it was treated as entertainment, alongside a maintenance of the City's glory through the humiliation of its foes.

	"Earlier, what did your remarks on power have to do with my initial question? The extraneous thoughts have been born of completely arbitrary causes."

	"Arbitrariness is a factor in your situation. All shall be cleared imminently, so withhold your questions until then."

Here the Aide looked at the Reader:
	"Is that not an insufferably bland reply? How could one ever accept such a defense, one which invites more questions than it answers? It does not matter, it truly does not matter how bland it is; the theater continues anyways."

The Prince was, quite frankly, apalled. How could one ever accept such a defense, one that invites more questions than it answers? Yet, the defense would have to be tolerated for the moment, for the execrated one had arrived.

His greying beard drooped down his shriveled neck, and his eyes leaped back and forth with animalistic intensity; they were fearful, but understood nothing. His pale wrists were firmly bound with jute rope, and he were a headdress of crow feathers.

The guards pushing him forwards did nothing to stop the debris being thrown at him: he was, after all, the great Traitor.

In his youth, he was a staunch comrade of the Lord of the City. Wherever the former's bow could not penetrate, the latter stuck his sword. He was the most highly regarded of the Lord's companions, but he fell under the influence of a mysterious force. The unknown assailant made his move, and faster than the eye could note, his mind was no longer his own. He underwent a dreadful fit, and in his madness, his sword almost took the head of his sovereign. Thankfully, this did not come to pass, and the combined force of the Lord's defenders managed to best him.

It was the Aide who managed to deal the final blow, and he who announced to the commons that the Traitor had collaborated with a barbarian chieftain to seize power. According to his report to the elites, the man had utterly lost his wits to an insidious power, so the best course of action to prevent unrest would be to turn public outrage against an invisible foe.

This plan was, naturally, a great success. In the elaborate judgement of the Traitor, a stipulation stated that he would be flogged on the next auspicious date; that is to say, today. His father had ridden off with a mighty army to get "revenge" against the Aryans. so the prince was here in his stead.

A large shard of terracotta hid the head of the Traitor; he cried out and fell over. The crowd booed the wretch, and he was dragged to the Siva-lingam, where a perimeter had been cleared. Throughout the entire process, doubts had begun to fester in the Prince's heart. He knew the truth of matters, and despite the mannerisms of the Traitor proving that his mid was truly gone, it was revolting to see such a pious soul reduced to a laughingstock.

The Traitor was tied to the pedestal, and his torturer stepped forward with a fine whip. As he raised it, it became apparent to the Prince that he could not withhold his response.

	"Hold!" his voice rang out.
	"In exceptional times, exceptional procedures must be applied. I have one such procedure, and I believe that it will preserve justice and bring fortune to the City."

Silence followed this bold assertion, as the bug-eyed crowd observed him. The priests began to furiously converse among themselves, and the Aide expressed no reaction, preserving the same amused expression he had worn throughout the event. Eventually, the priests seemed to concur, and they lowered
He wondered whether he should eat it. It seemed and appropriate course of action. He picked it up–and what a pleasure he felt!

He could feel its gaze, true as an arrow and firm as a trident. It filled him with unknowable emotions; his head spun as if struck, and his arms trembled. He saw within it an endless stream of eyes, gazing at him with dewy reverence. All emotion, all form, all truth (or was it untruth?) could be seen within this petty morsel. Why, then, was it still without him?

He consumed the morsel.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky smiled upon the earth, and the Goddess defended her creations from the tribulations of her lamp. In other words, her protective palm shielded the City from excessive heat.

	"It is a pleasant day, is it not?" remarked the Aide.

He was a mysterious creature, who claimed to have never been born, only created (what pedantry!) This claim needed no justification, for his distinctive appearance sufficed as reasoning. His flesh was of the darkest complexion; darker than ink itself. Its darkness seemed fathomless, yet not terrible. It was a comforting abyss, accompanied by a learned temperament–was it for this reason that the Lord of the City trusted him implicitly?

	"A perfect day for strolling, or for war/ My father must be pleased," replied the Prince. "And you–are you pleased? Your age and mood seem to forever be in motion. so one can know nothing of your true thoughts."

This caused the Aide to laugh.

	"I hope, my Prince, that you do not find my honor as temporary as the waves. Perhaps I may be inconstant in character, but I remain forever loyal."

	"That is no answer, your still avoid my query with delicacy. Well, let us leave that be, for we have arrived."

This was true, for they had indeed arrived at their destination. It was a long, cramped road, one filled with industrious activity. Compared to the typical brown mundanity the brickwork that comprised the City, it was a veritable palace of color. Merchants occupied brick cubicles along the path, places specifically reserved for the sales of their wares.

And what wares they were! Freshly produced bricks were sold alongside terracotta toys, placed there to entice accompanying children. Ochres of the richest red filled pots, alongside curios from farthest Mesopotamia. And the bangles! There were enough bangles to please even the most avaricious queen. The best were set in gold and studded with amber, while the lesser items were homely creations of good terracotta. Among the articles were even cowrie-shell bangles, taken from the cities near the Southern Sea. Such treasures were highly valued.

The only significant absence which the Prince could find was the lack of a Brahmin communing with the public in the hopes of attracting attention to their tem- but hold on. What was this malaise that filled his mind?

He recalled, now, that he had no recollection of ever hearing the term "Brahmin" before. How could this be? For a few moments, he was certain–absolutely so–that he recognized the term to some extent. If this were to be true, and not a mere delusion, then...

	Wherefore are you so grave in face, my Prince? Does something concern you? Pray, tell it to me, and I will aid you." The Aide was ever courteous.

	"It is nothing more than a passing sensation, yet it grips me thoroughly. I ask you, do you have any recognition of the term 'Brahmin'? It appears on my lips, though its meaning I know not."

Here the Aide paused in thought for a few moments, then replied,
	"If my memory is faithful, then I believe 'Brahmin' refers to a member of the barbarian priestly caste."

	"The Aryans? But they are our enemies! My father marches out to give them battle at this very time, so how could thoughts of them appear in this civilized place?"

The Aide tilted his head towards him, and his eyes glinted in the manner of stones by the Sarasvati.

	"'Civilized' you say? A frightening conceit, civilization! It enraptures the heart, though concentration of people, and it enraptures the eyes through driving them to desire. Simply observe this street! It was originally a mere path to the Siva-lingam, embarked upon by the pious. Then, a cunning spirit brought enterprise here by the sale of paphernalia. This was a grand success, and his comrades set up their fortifications here. They thrive off of this region, and the City itself now gives them designated stalls in exchange for their fine taxes."
	"I ask you, how different is this behavior from that of the nomads? They, too, seek only opportunity in a prosperous environment."

While this variety of peculiar statement was not unexpected from the dark-skinned one, it still drove the Prince to indignation.

	"The difference lies in our ancestry and histories. Ever since the dawn of the Cities, the Seven Rivers have been under our dominion, and our culture has permeated the land. These upstarts bring nothing but their insect-drone of a tongue, and they desire only two things: to seize our land, and to emulate us."

	"Well said, very well said! There exists, however, another interpretation. How can you be certain that this City is more connected to the land than the barbarians. It could be the prosperity of your subjects only continues due to a higher will. For, ultimately, the differences you speak of between them and the Aryans are guaranteed through power, and power alone."

	"Consider the bangles which fill this commercial mass. What value could such things have ever possibly possessed, unless a taste for them grew through ages of continued interaction among the people of the Seven Rivers. Are you not indebted to the land itself for allowing you to maintain stability sufficient to generate such tastes?"

	"It is not the land, but the Goddess who protects the Cities, and it is she who ensures our welfare.

	"And if fortune turns, plunging the Cities in despair? Power is the sole force that guarantees power, and thus–but you are enraged; you feel for your dagger! Remember, my dear Prince, that I am merely your humble companion, and I desire nothing but to provide you a princely education. Such an education must challenge its recipient in its content at times."

The Prince ground his teeth, and returned his weapon back to its sheath. Searing flames burnt through his blood, bringing wrah the equal of... who?

No, he could not afford to concern himself with these fleeting thoughts, lest the City be forgotten in the effort. His duty was to defend it, so he would defend it utterly–through speech and action alike.

	"I have confidence that the Goddess defends us not merely through faith, nor through abstractions of power, but through law. Our existence is guaranteed through the maintenance of order: it must be so, lest we devolve to squabbling apes. And this order–does it not have value? Through enforcing a virtuous law in the world, civilization is allowed to be spread. Even if its source were to be–and this is but a possibility–lost, the memory of order, of peace, would last forevermore in these lands. This immortality must surely be the true gift of the Goddess,"

	"So you have been initiated into the view of a Mystery, have you? Splendid, that will make the coming events easier for you to understand."

	"Whatever do you mean by 'com-"

	"Ah, this discussion has led to the elusion of our true goal. Were not you, my Prince, desirous of witnessing the flogging today?"

The Aide was once again helpful, and the Prince started in alarm.

	"Your words are true! How convenient it was that we were previously speaking of justive, for we may now see the fruits of jurisprudence."

He hastened towards the Siva-lingam, ignoring the homage of the masses.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In short order, the Prince and his companion arrived before the site of the great stone. It was raised on a platform of whitewashed brick, gazing out towards each of the four roads which led to it. I was made of ancient granite, hewn into its present state by unknown hands. Idol worship was not favored by the people of the Cities, but the priesthood made a rare exception in favor of this splendid artifact.

Its shape was phallic, intended to invoke fertility and bring might to the City. Within it rested the god himself, and only the priesthood knew the secret chants to appease his burgeoning rage. When the sign of the one-horned horse was raised, they would come forward and whisper these rites.

Now, however, the sign of the lame ox was raised. Its true significance was reserved to the elites, but all knew that it announced the commencement of a punishment.

What an exciting diversion it was. The Prince smiled contentedly, for he had arrived at the perfect time. Provided the finest vieweing spot, he observed the idol in its awesome force, and the priests waving their pictograms of the lame ox. Every road but the northern one thronged with people, all here to observe the flogging. Despite the circumstances, it was treated as entertainment, alongside a maintenance of the City's glory through the humiliation of its foes.

	"Earlier, what did your remarks on power have to do with my initial question? The extraneous thoughts have been born of completely arbitrary causes."

	"Arbitrariness is a factor in your situation. All shall be cleared imminently, so withhold your questions until then."

Here the Aide looked at the Reader:
	"Is that not an insufferably bland reply? How could one ever accept such a defense, one which invites more questions than it answers? It does not matter, it truly does not matter how bland it is; the theater continues anyways."

The Prince was, quite frankly, apalled. How could one ever accept such a defense, one that invites more questions than it answers? Yet, the defense would have to be tolerated for the moment, for the execrated one had arrived.

His greying beard drooped down his shriveled neck, and his eyes leaped back and forth with animalistic intensity; they were fearful, but understood nothing. His pale wrists were firmly bound with jute rope, and he were a headdress of crow feathers.

The guards pushing him forwards did nothing to stop the debris being thrown at him: he was, after all, the great Traitor.

In his youth, he was a staunch comrade of the Lord of the City. Wherever the former's bow could not penetrate, the latter stuck his sword. He was the most highly regarded of the Lord's companions, but he fell under the influence of a mysterious force. The unknown assailant made his move, and faster than the eye could note, his mind was no longer his own. He underwent a dreadful fit, and in his madness, his sword almost took the head of his sovereign. Thankfully, this did not come to pass, and the combined force of the Lord's defenders managed to best him.

It was the Aide who managed to deal the final blow, and he who announced to the commons that the Traitor had collaborated with a barbarian chieftain to seize power. According to his report to the elites, the man had utterly lost his wits to an insidious power, so the best course of action to prevent unrest would be to turn public outrage against an invisible foe.

This plan was, naturally, a great success. In the elaborate judgement of the Traitor, a stipulation stated that he would be flogged on the next auspicious date; that is to say, today. His father had ridden off with a mighty army to get "revenge" against the Aryans. so the prince was here in his stead.

A large shard of terracotta hid the head of the Traitor; he cried out and fell over. The crowd booed the wretch, and he was dragged to the Siva-lingam, where a perimeter had been cleared. Throughout the entire process, doubts had begun to fester in the Prince's heart. He knew the truth of matters, and despite the mannerisms of the Traitor proving that his mid was truly gone, it was revolting to see such a pious soul reduced to a laughingstock.

The Traitor was tied to the pedestal, and his torturer stepped forward with a fine whip. As he raised it, it became apparent to the Prince that he could not withhold his response.

	"Hold!" his voice rang out.
	"In exceptional times, exceptional procedures must be applied. I have one such procedure, and I believe that it will preserve justice and bring fortune to the City."

Silence followed this bold assertion, as the bug-eyed crowd observed him. The priests began to furiously converse among themselves, and the Aide expressed no reaction, preserving the same amused expression he had worn throughout the event. Eventually, the priests seemed to concur, and they lowered their heads in a sign of deference. Immediately, the Prince strode to pedestal, ignored the warnings of the guards, and released the bonds of the Traitor.

He turned around to face his liberator, but did nothing more. His eyes were still blank and uncomprehending, and his body (still not utterly mutilated in anticipation of the flogging) was still as if it were made of clay. The Prince wondered if he would understand his following statement, but he made it anyway.

	"Regardless of your treason, you have always remained a great warrior. When armed, you could tear through your opponents without the slightest difficulty. You even travelled to the frontier of Persia to hunt leopards. The Cities have long recognized your merit, so I offer you this chance: if the barbarians ever come for revenge on the defeat my father, the Lord, will surely inflict upon them, you will stand before the gates to give them battle. Through the blood that is shed, you will cleanse your past wrongs and bring victory to the City."

He was completely certain that the man would die in the attempt, but it would be best to give the martial hero a death in battle rather than in an animal cage. Yes, this would certainly be the best outcome, so long as he understood it.

For the beginning of the speech, the Traitor remained silent. However, the moment redemption and bloodshed was brought into account account, his eyes trembled with blistering emotion. Once the Prince finished speaking, he immediately collapsed to the ground, pressing his palms together in homage.

	"My lord, my lord, my... cannot think of thanks sufficient! May life come to your house and to your omnipotent name! BLESSINGS, BLESSINGS!"
He screeched out the last word in a manic tone, and continued his absurd ovation:
"BLESSINGS TO YOU AND MISERY TO THE WRETCH WHO PLACED THIS CUR-"

A shudder traced through the body of the Traitor, and he collapsed to the ground. After a moment's hesitation, the Prince nodded to the guards, and they pulled him back up. As he once against observed his savior, his eyes seemed to have undergone a spontaneous transformation. But a few moments ago, their emptiness coincided with mania, and they seemed to be those of a hunted beast. On the other hand, the emptiness within these eyes was accompanied by nothing, and naught but dullness could be seen in them any longer.

Such a transformation was no coincidence—the cause of this shift must have been displeased with the progression of events. They would be discovered in time, but the primary goal now was to see the extent of damage that this shift had caused.

	"Are you recovered?"

	"Yes, my Lord. I thank you for your attention, and shall follow your generous command with the utmost obedience. Your magnanimity has cleared my mind, and I properly understand now. If I ever desire to turn my sword against another inhabitant of the City before this attack, you have my word that I shall plunge it into my stomach before I betray your trust."

This delivery was made in a perfect monotone, almost comical in comparison to his previous mental state. The comedy was, however, lost in the situation, and the clear confusion of the crowd necessitated a rapid response. The Prince quickly rattled a vague acceptance of this oath, and ordered the guards to quickly escort the Traitor to his former home, before an unforeseen incident could cause the crowd to turn violent once more. This commission was hastily accepted, and the seemingly-unaddled man was guided down the northern road once more. By this point, the wizened magi no longer had any idea what to do, and it was a younger priest who salvaged the situation:

	"Let us all hail our Prince, whose sacred words have cured the Traitor of madness!"

This declaration was very well received, and a roar of chanting and stomping filled the Place of the Siva-Lingam. Such a din it was that one could very well have assumed that Shiva himself trembled in excitement. Feeling it unwise to cover his ears, the Prince place his palms together; first to salute the priesthood, then the exulting commons. A general retreat was made by the elites down the northern road, and he stepped delicately so as to maintain the goodwill while following his peers. Eventually, the acclamation slowly faded, and he hastened down the path.

	"This is the main route to the Northern Mansions, is it not?" asked he.

	"You are quite correct. As you are of royal blood, you typically take a concealed route from your lodgings in the south to the Mansion of your illustrious father, but it is along this path that supplicants and ministers attend court."

	"The commons have a curious mind, do they not? They lack the cultivation to comprehend writing, so they throw themselves into whatever verbal and visual pursuits they find. Perhaps they fail to understand the mysticism behind our pictograms, but they are incredibly well versed with the symbolism of sculpture."

The Aide paused for a moment in reflection, then serenely replied,
	"Do you know the famous Priest-King of Mohenjo-Daro? The original, of course; there are far too many copies now. It was placed on the balcony of the royal apartments, and all lesser passerby who saw it marveled at its make. It is said that the rumors behind its meaning corresponded almost exactly to the pictogram of the Wanderer. The image of the seemingly astray soul, whose ever movements was in actuality ordained by the gods and the Goddess; how could they ever have connected it to such a work of art, fine was it was?"

The Prince had not thought of the inauspicious pictogram of the Wanderer in some time, and its unlikely appearance here brought him unease. What did—no, he could not allow a symbol a symbol to trouble him! Pictogram or not, this could never pass! The honeyed words of this repulsive Aide must be dispelled at once! History is a matter of interpretation, and if one is to change its perception, then who is to say that its entire trajectory could be altered?

	"Perhaps it was their ingrained loyalty to the elites. They are easy for us to control at the best of times, but their affection can just as quickly sour when an impious ruler brings calamity to their comrades through his irreverence. Of course, the Priest-King possesses the archetypal kingly face and tiara, but it is the robes of a priest which he assumes. He is master of the people, and his piety is as pure as the sky. And then, is it not true that the pictogram of the Worshipper is the inverse of the Wanderer? Whereas the latter is a theatric trope, nothing but a slave to fate, the Worshipper is an assistant to the gods by his own free will. When he manifests himself, it is impossible to ignore him. It must be that he manifested himself in the original Priest-King sculpture, and the rumors transformed him into the Wanderer to add an air of mystery over the whole affair."

	"Denied the stylus and tablet, the customs of the commons are principally verbal. It is very well possible that the laborers of merchants who spread such stories add fabrications to them," concurred the Aide, mildly nodding his head.

His passivity was not as reassuring as it should have been, and a seed of doubt began to sprout within the Prince. Ever since terms taken from barbarian gibberish had begun to appear in his mind, the man seemed to be digging up hidden meanings in whatever he said. His words played a delicate game, for they both dug out curious elements in his thoughts and drove him to keep playing the game. Dialogues of power and rumors of sculptures—what purpose was there in any of it?

The Aide seemed not to notice any unease on his face, and continued to walk forwards. How long had they been walking for?

No, more importantly, when had this sophistic goading begun? It certainly could not have begun in the morning. The time from when he awoke to when he broke his fast was well-preserved in his mind, and nothing peculiar had happened. He awoke in his usual lodgings; the joy of travel filled his frame; he ached to praise the gods and inspect his horse. Nothing at all was unusual there. Why, then, had he decided to make his day unpleasant through these trivial games? Now that his teasing was caught, he would certainly—

And yet, something was off.

The place in which he had breakfast was not his home.

The Asura within his stomach danced and twisted as his humors unraveled themselves, bringing an unmistakable sensation of nausea throughout his heart. What he remembered were not the lodgings of a prince, they were the battlements of a—

	"My apologies for this sudden interruption, but there is a figure rapidly approaching you, likely desiring an audience."

He was, unfortunately, correct. This individual was in such a hurry that they did not pass through the shade, instead traveling directly beneath the light. They were in such a hurry that the Prince found himself instinctively taking a step forwards to receive them, entering the light himself. It was a splendid light, a pure light, a truth-seeking light that fell upon the virtuous. When faced with such light, it coated not only the flesh, but the mind; vitality flooded his exhausted bones after a mere moment of basking within it. Such a light was the pride of the Sun, bringing reason and comprehension to the torpid ocean from which this mortal plane arose. It must be praised; ten thousand rituals would not suffice to encompass its magnitude; they would be performed regardless.

He felt it stream in his eyes, granting him clean sight. He felt it wrap around his bones, providing strength enough to leap in the mountains. He felt it stream into his lips, and they ached to sing hymns to the gods. This light so dazzled him that nothing could be seen beyond it. In a mere moment, his entire existence had been transformed into light. No sound could reach him here, only an infinitude of comfort. Wind blew across the plains, causing the grass beneath to tremble. The horses shook their manes and looked towards the sky. All these were visible to him in the blinking of an eye. They disappeared immediately afterward; he needed nothing but the light.

What was the purpose of this sublime moment? Was it not yet another Maya, softening the mind and weakening the heart with its timeless beauty? The opposite could be true as well, making it a brief glimpse at the Absolute. That which a million distractions have distracted the mind from—could it be subtly revealed to him now?

Here the Aide looked at the Reader, and said nothing.

Now that the supplicant had come closer, their features could be clearly distinguished. Firstly, while this was obvious from even a distance, her feminine identity could be easily distinguished from the magnificent sari which adorned her. The antariya and accompanying sash was made from cotton of high quality, gently enclosing her from waist to feet. Such a design was customary, yet despite its common composition, its ornamentation made it appear as novel as a shawl of the Goddess herself.

It was dyed a glorious red, immediately reminding the mind of the sun above, pouring down the glorious light that unified the prince and her in this brief moment. It was a cruel master at the worst of times, tormenting provincial farmers and affluent merchants as it pleased. Its merciless attack could color skin beyond recognition, causing irreparable harm to the albino beggars who hid in the shade of trees. Indeed, such was its fury that the nomads worshipped it as a god. They called it Surya, and it was treated with as much respect as the Goddess was among the civilized peoples.

While this red could be merciless, it could also be turned to good. The heat of the sun could be used in production of the great bricks that made the City, and it could bring hope to a hungry traveler in a desolate march. Its rays could bring life to even the most reticent of beasts! Such a red it was that it could even invoke the haze of passion that so subtly sinks over the susceptible sight, steadily savored by every spirited soul.

This maiden seemed not to be satisfied by color alone, for the antariya was covered in beguiling patterns. Thin thread of gold and black danced all across her body, joining and separating from itself time and time and time and time and time again, with every small gap created inviting the observer to delightfully imagine the significance of their intersections. Perhaps they represented the untouchable clouds atop the mountains, the vehicles of higher beings? But that isn't true, for they clearly resemble the vegetation that decorate the secret groves of the world, hidden deep in the forests. They are the meeting-grounds for unknown creatures, who weave together the beautiful illusion of truth with the utmost joy.

And the jewels, the jewels! In the center of every great major of "vegetation," a garnet shined. Such a gemstone was blood itself, petrified and cleansed until it was beyond mere fluid. It could never have been such a trivial thing after becoming a gemstone, so it must have abandoned its practical purpose and applied itself to the pursuit of beauty alone. It is no surprise, then, that these garnets completed the repertoire of this mysterious figure.

Her blouse was of deep blue, a similar shade to the precious lapis lazuli that the Sumerians love so dearly. Could it have been inspired by contact with them? It certainly must have, for the rest of her accessories were of a similarly fanciful quality. Golden bangles adorned her wrist, trembling with every motion and betraying metallurgy that beguiled the eye in complexity. Her neck, not wishing to be surpassed by mere wrists, wore a pearl necklace whose luster was the rival of any queen. Composed of the unwashed tears of the Southern Sea, it brought with it an elegance that could never by fully described. If the bangles were treasures of the earth, and the necklace a treasure of the sea, what was the blouse? While its shade could be likened to lapis lazuli, it could just as easily be compared to a the sea itself, for its serenity seemed equally infinite.

Her head was adorned by a veil. She removed it.

Two bright eyes pierced through the scattered defenses of the Prince, and he could only admit to himself that he was well and truly moved. Their languid attentions could only bring sighs of satisfaction, and the thin layer of black made them seem like holy treasures. Indeed, if these eyes alone were to travel around the world, they would have temples built for them by every race of man. Regardless of whatever barbarisms were present in their customs, this axiom would forever remain true. Lo, her soft lips finally parted! What was it that she wished to say?

	"I am the child of the man who you have pardoned, and I have searched for you ever since I heard of the events at the torture, narrowly averted by the grace of the Goddess. My father is a good man, only driven mad due to a cowardly attack of forces beyond mortal reckoning. Who could have possible blamed him for his actions, given the situation?"

Her voice quavered, and she shivered with barely concealed misery. These few words seemed to have exhausted a great deal of her energy, for she sighed in exhaustion. The Prince, stunned by this daughter, could offer no reply.

	"The elites were far too ready to sacrifice him towards the task of war, war against the Aryans who have caused so much trouble in the north. A barbarian chieftain? Who but the masses of this city could have believed such a fabrication, spread by your companion here? You gazed into the heart of my father and understood his true value, and now you free him. I can offer you nothing but my life in gratitude, so please, accept my servitude as your humble slave!"

A pressure had built up in the bones of her listener, and by the time she finished her oration, it seemed as though pipes and drums were clashing in his ears. He understood nothing, he could feel nothing, so enraptured was he in the throes of this sublime spirit. Sublime was certainly the correct word here, for without any effort on the part of the speaker, he already felt an adoration for her that both contented and terrified him.

	"S-such extreme oaths will not be necessary. I implore you to accept this trivial gesture as a mere display of my respect, and think no more of it. Now, return to your father in peace, lest I be compelled to change my judgement."

These paltry words could never have expressed the entire scope of emotions this bizarre audience had brought up the Prince, yet it could at least suffice to bring an end to it, and allow him to compose himself. While their recipient displayed signs of hesitation, she eventually consented to the request and returned in the direction from when she came. As she traveled beneath the light, one could scarcely tell where she began and ended: so it was, in the manner of a mirage, that she departed. Where could she have disappeared to? Could her mortal flesh have been shed, and her sari transformed into haze?

	"Tell me, good Aide, who was that strange creature?"

This question fell upon amused eyes—it seemed his companion was unaffected by the slight against him. Was there not something that had to be said to him? The recent sequence of events was so sudden, that the Prince could hardly recall whether he was to have been furious or overjoyed with him before they transpired. Whatever the case, the Aide's familiarity with the elites would certainly help here, as he must have had contacts in every household.

	"Unfortunately, I know as little as you in this regard. Perhaps I have seen her alongside her father, but fate never allowed me to interview her in particular. A tragedy, for her passion could please any soul."

	"What misfortune! Even after her departure, her spirit seems to be clinging to me, and forcing her image in my eyes. Every corner of my body writhes and contorts in the throes of awe; my clarity has wholly departed. I curse my cowardice for bidding me send her away! I should have accepted her offer, then I could have discovered the source of her mysterious power over my soul."

	"Is it not love that you feel? You are certainly no neophyte in the school of romance, so how is it that you resort to euphemisms to refer to your emotions?"

	"No, 'love' does not suffice here, it could never suffice. Ever since I laid my eyes upon that maid, a magnetism seems to have been dragged out of the radiance from which she emerged. It wrapped around my stomach, stimulating my the fire of my attention and threatening to asphyxiate me in its fumes. Yes, I am certain that I will die if I treat this meeting lightly, for there was a higher force behind it. I comprehend it not, yet I am certain of it! The Mystery cults seek to reveal higher truths experienced by their founders, and I can only compare this encounter to one of those meetings."

The Aide nodded once, then unveiled his own interpretation:
	"Perhaps I understand now. You mean to say that your every movement and thought seems to have been completely devoured by an incomprehensible mass, elevating you to a state of higher emotion?"

	"Yes, this is true in the most exact sense!"

	"Then, it seems—and forgive me for making this extrapolation—that your emotions are particularly reminiscent to those of the soul utterly overwhelmed in Maya. You mentioned the Mysteries, and it is true that the most learned priests often refer to Maya as a beautiful woman. This is not without reason, for Maya is the blissful senselessness that drives one to ignore the true state of existence, and continue to fritter their lives in inanity. Its force can be both terrible and gentle: it is the flood that wipes out a village, and it is the river that brings life to all. Even the Goddess is not free of this, for she is replicated in the words and thoughts of the people, and are these thoughts not inescapably conditional? Thus, it is reasonable to imagine Maya as a woman, for her power is irresistible to any who gaze upon her."

	"Your proposal is absurd, I insist that you practice caution. How could the Goddess be anything similar to the lady with whom I was introduced? She is the means to a higher truth, a perfection that permeates this imperfect reality with the goal of guiding pious souls towards salvation. This is well known, and universally accepted. Besides, if her form was a mere illusion of Maya, then how is it that by her one can realize Atman? How is it that an imperfect source can reveal the Absolute?"

At these words, a pair of eyes turned to face the Prince. No further reaction was necessary, for he immediately waited in anticipation for the response.

	"What reason is there that it should not? You choose to distinguish between the Goddess and a mortal, but what reason is there for such an assumption? It is base instinct, and nothing more: what folly for one who seeks to comprehend a higher truth! Consider the following instead: all distinctions between phenomena are, ultimately, arbitrary. Is not the fact that water in the Sindhu shifts and well-water remains still ultimately unimportant? Well and river water are nothing but titles assigned to water in different states, altered by their surroundings rather than by some universal distinction. Such claims are faulty, and the imposition of human ideals on this existence."

	"You speak nothing but falsehood! Even in your example, you were forced to acknowledge the effect of the environment on water as a distinguishing factor. If the surroundings were indistinct from the water, then we would already have annihilated Maya and achieved Brahman. All objects cannot be identical, so why should the Goddess be identical in essence to a human woman? How can the perfect be confounded with the imperfect? "

	"What you say seems to be reasonable, and it is in this that the misconception lies. My example was merely an example, a method by which the true state of reality may be ascertained. It is made using imperfect construction, and its imperfection leads it to scrutiny by imperfect means. Even the idea of imperfection itself is imperfect, just as the idea of nothingness is nothing itself. Atman exists in a manner that cannot simply be explained through speech, for speech destroys itself. Despite its flaws, my example was a means to understand the true nature of Atman, and it is a simple beginning. Speech, alongside everything else will, be transcended in time if you follow along this path."
	"However, it could also be true that all of this is false. Perhaps all intuitive experiences of Brahman were false, and universal distinctions between objects exist. Or perhaps both are false, and a completely different sequence from anything man has thought or will ever think is correct. What if the instinctive conceptions of true and false are inexistent, and inexistence is inexistence, and the inexistence of inexistence is inexistent? As you can see, speech destroys itself, or perhaps it does not."

	"I shall hear no more sophistries! If you believe in the destruction of all things, then your ideology destroys itself. The Goddess is the bringer of order to the world, and it is by her grace that we have escaped the primordial ocean from which the world was formed. It is your desire to return to that miserable, utterly destructive mass: otherwise, whyever would you advocate for the destruction of our civilization-founding faith?"

	"But this complete 'destruction' of ideas is the nature of Brahman, ever-reflecting upon itself! It is not destruction, but the weakness of speech to describe an absolute reality! This is undoubtedly true, and your dualism prevents you from full comprehension. Consider the Katha Upanishad... on second thought, do not. Consider instead the fact that you are merely an initiate into a Mystery Cult, and you have not been told every secret cultivated by the Masters. Once an acolyte attains sufficient prowess, his Master shall aid him to understand that the Goddess is also an imperfect path to Brahman. However, this does not diminish her value in any way, for her Maya shall be used to forever destroy Maya."

The Prince gnashed his teeth, and his eyes pierced through the body of the Aide a thousand times. Where had the rest of the elites gone? None could be seen in the road, and had not been for quite some time. But how could this be true when it was his pursuit of them that brought him down the Northern Road. It did not matter for the moment; he responded once more.

	"Your explanation simply does not suffice. Your dialectic is the true self-destructive force, regardless of your justification, and the fact that you have not produced any solid evidence further weakens your vision. Perhaps the Masters could truly believe that the Goddess is a creation of Maya, but it is equally plausible that your assertion is a lie."

This furious retort seemed to have some effect on the Aide, for his ever-amused face froze for a few moments. However, rather than transforming into a mask of unease, it instead stretched into a horrific smile. In the blink of an eye, his eyes seemed to explode with glee, and his mouth seemed to stretch farther and farther apart. How could it possibly contort to such an extent? What did he find that was so amusing? Against his better desire, the Prince flinched, and the mouth returned to a neutral expression with comical speed.

	"It is exactly as you say. For, ultimately, all philosophies have no intrinsic power. They are merely the imposition of a certain perspective onto reality, and nothing more. Their value comes from their ability to convince, by which they may impose the aforementioned perspective onto reality. Or perhaps this is entirely false, and an entirely objective solution exists. Well, whatever the case, I will readily concede that your argument has more philosophic merit than mine. Given my appropriation of Buddhist rhetoric in a dissimilar context, that is the only possible outcome."

A drum began to frantically beat nearby. Such was its force that the sky seemed to shrink, recoiling before this heaven-splitting sound.

	"The time for prayer has already arrived? Well, regardless of our differences of cult, my Prince, the value of prayer remains ever-important. Let us pay our homage to the altar."

This was a fine idea. In beseeching the aid of the gods, perhaps the poisons of this day may be forever purged. They travelled towards the source of the drumming, and arrived at a small circular clearing.

A great peepal tree was planted in this artificial oasis, and its shade was a great comfort from the relentless sun. Its trunk was painted with rich red ochre, and its myriad arms reached out towards the Goddess. Truly, it was in a state of constant prayer, and it was for this purpose that it was considered a pious act to pray beneath it. A lone priest sat beneath the peepal with a great drum, battering it with all the force he could muster and chanting a prayer to the Goddess. A pastoral scene! One could almost imagine they were in a village by the Shutudri, were it were not for the omnipresent brick that surrounded the tree.

Devotees were flocking in from the three roads that led to this space. All of them were either members of the elite, or their servants, for this part of the City was entirely under their jurisdiction. The specifics were not particularly important, however, as they all cleared space for their sovereign, who sat directly before the drummer.

His ears were assailed by a ceaseless stream of sound, and he closed his eyes to better acclimate himself with it. The first prayer had already reached its climax, and the heady praises of the Goddess reached unparalleled speeds.

They were transcendental verses; each line spoke of great feats, of flawless rites, or sinners and saints. Such stories were the blood of the mind, they were the sustenance of the soul. Their value was as boundless as the steppes from which they came. Truly, when one immersed themselves in Vedic passages, they were freed from all external troubles. The misery of the world, the fear of transmigration; all these were cast away under the gentle auspice of those sacred texts. In this way, their presence here was perfect. They were revealed texts, a gift from Indra and Brahmi, the most precious of substances presented in the form of writing.

None could deny their purpose, and none could deny their truth. To listen to them without being moved was impossible, such were the depths of their meaning. The literal value was immense, and the figurative content beneath could bring any devoted soul on the correct path, regardless of caste. It was the duty of the Brahmins to reveal the value of these ancient texts, and the dissimilate their secrets amongst their flock. A million schools could appear, and it would not be enough to encompass even a fraction of their true value.

In a hierarchical system, they were the window to an ancient past of simplicity, where baroque rituals were rightly criticized for their shallowness. No king would ever dare to overstep his duties, and his subjects would treat him with the utmost respect. All would consult the Brahmins to learn of the meritorious deeds they could perform in their ordained position. In this way, society would run without fail, and contentment could be found in every position. Regardless of material concerns, regardless of spiritual unease, the Vedas would reveal an existence governed by virtue. Through understanding this existence, the return to Atman would be guaranteed.

The Prince reflected on the myriad troubles which he had underwent today. The barbarian intrusions, the excesses of emotion, and the endless series of conversations and encounters; none of these would last in time. They were the smallest of travails, and the virtuous could easily surmount them. His will was free, and he used it to freely devote himself to the gods. Regardless of mental troubles, how could this ability of choice possibly be false? How could this devotion possibly be mistaken? Perhaps he was not the equal of the hero-kings of old, demigods in their own right, but he could at least defend himself in this regard.

That was it! He would defend himself against any further disruptions with all his might. Never again would he suffer-

The drums ceased for a moment, then they resumed again. This time, acolytes in the audience took out wooden flutes and began to play. Regardless of the passion with which they engaged in their spiritual music, the Prince could not help but feel as if something were missing. First of all, where were the veenas? The weak blowing of those flutes could never replicate the awesome heights of a string instrument letting out a wailing lament to the heavens. The veena must have had twenty varieties, yet not a single one of them appeared here. How could this be?

And for that matter, where was the shanka? The absence of that great conch was an even more egregious offense than the previous loss, for could a chant truly be great be without the cry of the shell to accompany it? In the moment of blessing, where flowers were given to the listeners and returned to the altars, it was the shanka that distinguished this rite from a mere charade of piety. Such a distinction would obviously not be understood by the Brahmins of this degenerate era, who understood no rites of true significance, and merely played at the heartstrings of wealthy kings.

They demanded exorbitant sacrifices, ever-growing attentions, royal adoration by the court. In exchange, they supplied commercialized interpretations of the Vedas and Upanishads, and half-forgotten discourses by worthier gurus. They shirked their duty to aid the people, and their mannerisms occasionally bordered those of the Shudras in worldly barbarism. How could this be, when they... had nothing to do with the rites that were currently taking place.

The Prince opened his eyes again, and the gazes of every single person sitting beneath the peepal were turned towards him. Their eyes never closed, and each did their utmost to pierce into the depths of his thoughts. This was a rather unpleasant state of affairs. The Aide was not present in the crowd, but that did nothing to lessen the unease the Prince felt from this profoundly unusual phenomenon. He remained silent and moved nothing but his head, but his movements seemed to elicit no reaction. He stood up, and every priest present stood up as well.

He turned behind him.

He saw himself staring directly into his eyes.

His eyes opened.

He was situated beneath the comfortable shade of a peepal tree, one that practically invited the head to lie against its roots and sleep. Its trunk was painted with rich red ochre, and its myriad arms reached out towards the Goddess. Truly, it was in a state of constant prayer, and it was for this purpose that it was considered a pious act to pray beneath it. He felt the desire to vomit.

	"You have awoken, my Prince. The prayers had begun by the larger tree nearby, but the heat was so unbearable that sleep seemed a superior alternative. I apologize for proposing the idea, but it seems like it was worthwhile, as you outslept me."

	"Why do I dream of the Aryans? Why do I dream of ostracization?"

	"Why shouldn't you? They are a primitive, yet fearsome foe. Their chariots can tear through swathes of men, and the bronze in their swords is of the highest quality. If they were ever to unify under a halfway-decent chieftain, the Cities would need to strengthen their coalition to oppose them. Thankfully, they are scattered, and turning them against one another is trivial, so long as one has the right gifts to be given by the right men at the right time. Sometimes, however, a more decisive response is necessitated against the nomads, and your venerable father shall make certain to do this with his immortal host. Perhaps all the desire for future glory in the army has led you to dream of the enemy's peculiarities."

	"Yet mere fantasy was not the extent to which my dream was limited. Hazy as my recollections are, I became aware of truths that seemed perfectly natural. It was as if they always existed in this land."

	"Perhaps they were, and it was the barbarians who uncovered them. Besides, you are practically a theatric hero in your sensitivity, so your hatred of the enemy could have easily combined with fears of popular rejection in your dream."

Theatric, was it? Could his actions truly be considered theatric? This he considered as he raised himself up to a sitting position, resting his back against the peepal.

If they were truly the work of the stage, then where did that leave him? The archetypal hero was the man of justice, who obeyed the gods in spite of their unknowable desires. Dragged through trial after trial, he was fundamentally shifted from his original state, and embittered beyond recovery. His spite towards existence was as high as a mountain, and his heart grew as heavy as brick, but he never failed in the duties assigned to him. He would preserve his piety regardless, and he would be rewarded for this by providence Through the return of all that which he had lost, and far more besides, he would exit the stage with a proper understanding of his role.

However could he be compared to those theatric abstractions? They were mere means of entertainment, realized by professional actors who paid their due to the City with that which they had extracted from the audience. But that view was a dismission of the theatric art as a whole, which was certainly excessive.

But if he were to accept this dignity, that would mean that his actions too would be theatric. Regardless of stature, he would always be a mere shadowpuppet for the sake of entertainment. In that case, desiring to theatricize reality would only be an active detriment to his freedom as Prince of the City, for he would be shackled to a game produced by another.

A page boy dashed by the tree. He was clearly in a rush, and scarcely noticed the two individuals reclining beneath the peepal. He had almost completely passed the three before recognition flooded his eyes and he ground to a halt. Gasping for breath, he leaned on the tree for support, then discharged his message:

	"We were searching for you, my Lord! Disaster has struck your father on campaign—the Aryans have cruelly captured him and his highest officers in battle by a dirty trick!"

The true significance of this update did not fully sink in at first, but once it did, the Prince leaped to his feet and grabbed the unfortunate page by the neck.

	"Defeat, defeat?! Impossible, my father was schooled in each art of war, and his companions had achieved many victories against the barbarians before! If but one word of what you tell me rings false, then I swear upon the Goddess that I will snap your neck right here!"

	"I speak only the truth, my Lord, and implore you to listen attentively! The tribe who His Majesty chose to war against were crude even among their peers, and they knew not the secrets of bronzework. They scarcely sighted the great host falling upon them before they fled their shoddy campsite, and their horses retreated with such speed that you would think they were headed back to their northern homeland. His Majesty was said to have suspected a ploy, but his most brazen officers refused to exercise caution and insisted that his soldiers occupy the area to frighten nearby tribes into offering their allegiance to the City."
	"His Majesty conceded to their demands, but it was such a strategy that the barbarians desired. The terrain in the region was uneven, and it seemed that behind every hill and every mountain there waited a spy to alert his superiors about the movements of our troops. Convinced that their power had already guaranteed them victory, discipline among the soldiers grew lax, and they scarcely expected any opposition as they established a perimeter of occupation. By yesterday afternoon, the task had been completed, and the troops were thinly spread in defending an overly large area."
	"Exhausted by their labor and the midday sun, the sentries looked only for the moment where they could return to that camp that was being swiftly made, and never expected several formations of Aryan soldiers to pass through the mountains and launch an attack. Indeed, despite only having migrated into our lands but a few generations ago, the Aryans were more familiar with the terrain then we were; a byproduct of their nomadic lifestyle. Thus, they set up a ridiculous bait for His Majesty, and were merely lying in wait for the right time to strike."

	"What you say is impossible! Unless some traitor among the elites had provided them thorough plans of our troop movements, they could never have put together such a scheme. And besides, a single tribe would not be nearly enough to harry our forces, regardless of their intellect. Only a confederation could have accomplished the feat of which you speak. Do not test me with your fictions, lest I squeeze this neck of yours."

	"Believe me, my Lord, you must believe me! By the rite of succession, you must lead the city in the absence of your father, and you must prevent the barbarians from pushing their advantage! All that you have said is correct, for it was the men of several tribes who cut through our perimeter and encircled our forces. The initial attackers were merely vanguards, and two larger armies came from the east and west to encircle the soldiers' camp. Needless to say, the officers were astonished by this sudden offensive; not even the greatest general could have taken it with ease."
	"Your father the king proved his worth in this chaos, and he rallied together the men to launch a two-pronged assault. Combined, the two nomad armies were only slightly larger than our punitive expedition, and they possessed a several technological disadvantage in their scarcity of bronze. The Cities have a monopoly on the alloy, and the Aryans can only equip themselves with that which they have purchased, stolen, or stuck together with inferior metallurgy. While the fight would be harsh, a victory was certainly within reach."
	"This is what the officers believed, but they failed to take into account the innovations of the Aryans. The camp had been set upon higher ground, and our forces possessed a significant advantage in that regard. The Aryans would be forced to waste their energy charging upwards, and our men could fall upon them with redoubtable force."

	"It was the chariots that did us in, wasn't it?" inquired the Aide. "I know them well, and they are quite the neat contraption in a pitched battle."

	"Exactly right, sir. I was not there to witness it, but from what I gleaned from a survivor, it was the chariot wing of the western enemy host that changed the course of battle. The initial nomad skirmishers were easily pushed back, and our west wing was far less exhausted than theirs by the time the battle began. Chariot-mounted archers had already been deployed in the skirmishing phase, but they were considered mere novelties that possessed a degree of maneuverability. Seemingly intimidated, they gathered together in the left corner of the battlefield, and their riders pulled out their melee weapons. The chariots were apparently reserved for nobility, meaning the swords unsheathed were of fine make."
	"They returned into the fray, now having reorganized into an unbreakable line, and they plowed into our left flank. Valiant men were trampled beneath the hooves of snorting horses, and the upstart nomads comfortably slashed down at their enemies while out of easy reach. While this charge may not have been decisive by itself, the sheer surprise of the affair coupled with the bizarre cohesion of the Aryans led to a rout on the left flank. Once the initial troops had broken, the chariots pulled back and their warriors switched back to bows, harassing our fleeing troops and bringing disorder to our ranks. This chaos invigorated the enemy infantry, and they began to gain ground. In short order, it was a complete rout.

The Prince freed the page, and placed a hand on his head. His mind spun in confusion and rage, and he no longer knew what to do.
	"Say no more. It is obvious that the celebration from this victory was heard in the eastern theater of the battle, and had a detrimental effect. Eventually, the enemy forces moved to join together, then it was all over. I understand now how my father could have been captured, and I despise his confidants for not having been more cautious of a scheme."

	"One final thing, my Lord! Our emissaries sent to survey the state of operations met with the survivors from the battle, allowing this humble messenger to provide this account. Among these terrified men, one theory was common: it is likely that the Aryans are heading for the City at this very moment, emboldened by the defeat of a large portion of our army. They know nothing of siegecraft, but this must be dealt with. You are a warrior yourself, and after the tragic loss of His Majesty, only you can restore your subject's courage against the foe. Do not refuse your post!"

The Prince's body body no longer seemed to be in his control, and it began to stride in the direction of the walls. Preparations whirled through his mind, and lessons from this defeat were taken into account. The Aryans would sorely regret having provoked him.

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He knew nothing of what transpired between the time from which he readied himself for war, and hour of battle. His movements were completely aimless, and he had not the faintest idea of where he was going. His vocalizations were gibberish to his own ears, and his justification behind his actions was equally incomprehensible. Somehow, it seemed that the random sounds he made seemed to be appropriate for the situation. This applied equally to all his other actions as well, for as he stood upon the great wall of the City, the commons and elites alike seemed to have thrown their lot in with him. Was it possible for one, then, to find meaning where there was none?

To his right was the Aide, omnipresent as usual. He seemed to have only just arrived, but he had assisted his Lord greatly in the mustering of troops. How long had that taken? How many days had passed since he first heard of the great defeat at the hands of the Aryans? These were all unimportant questions; the successful performance of his duty was the only thing that mattered.

To his right was the senior military advisor, the oldest surviving member of the his father's officers. He had not gone on campaign, and had thus avoided the fates of his peers. He was a truly loyal man, and following the recent disaster, he executed the orders of his new master with the utmost obedience. Completely unoriginal in his tactics and strategy, he was certainly not the best officer that could have been present, but he would suffice. Now, he spoke in his hoarse tone to provide the final report before the battle would commence

	"My Lord, both the garrison and conscripts are armed with equipment as befits to their position. The fleetest of the elites bear fine bows with copper-tipped arrows, twenty per warrior. These far outrange the crude javelins and weak bows of the barbarians, with far more stopping power. For every dozen arrows they fire, one will lodge itself in the heart of a chieftain. Such bows are the pride of our arsenal, and your generosity is measureless for having donated the entire collection of your father the king to the common effort. As for the commons, each has been equipped with a sturdy sling and a pouch of stone shot. The Aryans know nothing of guile and attack in waves, so even the most incompetent worker will hit a target so long as he launches his shot far enough. If ever we run out of ammunition, a pile of unused clay has been prepared for additional shot."

	"As for the sidearms, our stockpile of bronze has proved to be our salvation, for every officer, greater and lesser, has been issued a long sword of bronze. The technique in their creation is known only to the elect, among which you are a member, so I need not elaborate there. These swords will..."

The old soldier rattled off a list of half-baked praises and statistics, most of which the Prince was already aware of. Thus, this final check proved redundant, and he instead turned his gaze towards the host forming outside the walls. This was the great army of the Aryans, composed of several tribes who had formed a coalition against the City. The chieftains who had organized the great ambush let rumor of their victory spread far and wide, bringing new tribes to join the original allies. Now, they desired a decisive movement against their enemy, who had fortified themselves in preparation of a siege.

What an eclectic group these pale-skinned nomads were! Their nobles were adorned in a bizarre panoply of red paint, with symbols from the Cities being carelessly mixed with their own imagery. Their gods reclined in positions associated with the Goddess, and symbols from the Mystery Cults were surrounded by painted foliage. Despite their enmity for the civilization which birthed such art, they were readily willing to adopt its culture. Their ranks were much like that which the unfortunate page boy had described: lightly armored skirmishers guarded great chariots, with the lesser infantry leading the advance.

In the back, atop a gilded chariot crowned with a bronze umbrella, was what the Prince assumed to be their strongest chieftain. Before he could get a got look at his features, a cloud of dust kicked up by his followers utterly obscured his vision of the man. This was unfortunate, but it gave him enough time to address the soldiers on the wall for one final piece of encouragement. He told his pages to spread this message to those who could not hear it after its completion, and began:

	"Valiant defenders! The barbarians come before us today, but to fear them is to deceive yourself! They have come for a siege, these lawless cretins, and they will be greatly displeased when they find out the difficulty that underlies such an endeavor. Our walls are composed of the firmest brick, and they stand twice as high as a man! The battlements stand ready defend their sentries from arrows, and it will be trivial for brave men to destroy any rope or ladder thrown up."
	"They seek to starve us in occupying the typical trade routes, but our larders are stuffed with provisions, and our wells are filled with boundless water. They seek to isolate us, but I have sent a messenger southwards in anticipation of this tactic—Harappa will soon rouse five thousand men and come to our aid. Most importantly, a great sacrifice has been gifted to us by the Goddess, who advised me to pardon him. All men know him to have never broken in battle, and he will acquit himself valiantly by charging at the enemy. Whether he reaches them or not is no matter, for his willingness to die will strike fear into their hearts."
	"Remember, men: the barbarians only the previous battle due to having been provided plans of our movements by a spy among our ranks. They have grown cocky, and believe their success to be entirely their own doing; this is why they attack us now. We have taken measures to ensure such treason shall never again occur, and with that, our victory is guaranteed! Now, commence the sacrifice!"

The "sacrifice" referred to was the Traitor, who had been stationed in front of the gates with a firm order to stay put before the drum of battle was beat. He had been stripped to the buff, and been given his old sword. Lines of red ochre joined together the form the sacred shape of the swastika upon his stomach, and it was surrounded by several enchantments of defense and fearlessness. It was never the desire of the Prince to see him meet his death as a sacrifice, but the unusual correlation between his revised judgement and the present situation had led to a rumor that he was marked for death by the Goddess. At least, he believed it was so, for he could only recall the rumor and none of the context which surrounded it.

As the drum began to beat, the attention of every defender was upon him. Letting out a guttural howl, he began to sprint at the barbarians with all his might. The fact that he had obeyed orders properly was truly miraculous, but that only confirmed the favor of the Goddess.

He charged forwards, and the earth seemed to split apart beneath his feet. From his position, the Prince could see the Aryan infantry pause in confusion, and the chariot riders begin to confer with each other to find an appropriate response to this wrathful lunatic. He appeared as if the avatar of an avenging god, and he raised his sword in the air as a sign of-

An arrow whizzed past the top of his head, slicing off a few hairs from its sheer proximity. No other attack followed it, and the charioteers looked behind them at its source. It was from the chieftain beneath the bronze umbrella, whose distance from the walls was so great that his appearance could not be distinguished even without a cover of dust. What a flawless shot for his first attempt, and from such a distance! The Prince could not help but feel envy, followed by dread when he saw that the Traitor had frozen in surprise.

A second arrow darted between his legs. He raised his sword in anticipation of the next projectile. But could scarcely do anything when an arrow flickered past his right arm, then another past his left. These were clearly from the same source, but the last two were released consecutively with a speed that any sane observer would have deemed impossible for a skin-bearing being.

The Traitor began to step backwards, then—to the horror of all—turned tail and ran back towards the walls. He scarcely made it a few paces in retreat when a final arrow hit him in the back of the skull, putting an end to the great man.

	"It seems as if the sacrifice has turned foul," remarked the Aide. "I would suggest fetching a priest to provide an explanation."

A priest was fetched, but he could not provide an explanation.

	"The sacrifice could not have been a mistake! It was clearly ordained by the Goddess, and this claim was confirmed by all the Masters. Another force must have caused an imbalance, and I can see several factors-"

"SILENCE!" roared the Aide, bidding the clouds to tremble with the force of his tone. "You conniving charlatan, I have seen through excuses. How can you call yourself a priest when, caught in the excitement of a fresh omen, you and your peers forgot that no elite has  prayed before the Sanctified Hill since before the last full moon? That hallowed site is a home of the Goddess, and she must have surely been offended at the irreverence shown to her by self-proclaimed priests."

The accused offender paled at this analysis, for he had likely not considered this possibility. Its significance was, however, titanic, and it could not be trivially ignored. If the City was to lose the favor of the Goddess, then defeat against the attackers would be a foregone conclusion. Something had to be done.

	"Something has to be done," stated the Prince. "If the favor of a great city has been lost, then it can only be regained one of royal blood. This is a well known truth, and one that obligates me to travel to the hill now to make amends."

	"But my lord, your sudden disappearance will be taken as cowardice by the enemy, and will further lower the morale of our troops!" protested the Aide.

	"I have traveled there before; the priesthood knows of a hidden route to the site that connects to the City. If I use it for journey, I will be safe from any barbarian, and the hill itself has no strategic value that would lead to its seizure by the attackers. Besides, if I return with proof that the Goddess favors us once more, the soldiers will see themselves as immortal, and our resolve shall never again be challenged."

The priest nodded hastily, desperately seeking to safe face.
	"I know this route—it is comfortable and well-hidden. Your journey will be quick, my Lord, and you may soon return to us after practicing your austerities to the Goddess."

The Aide, displaying a somber expression, spoke once more.
	"If you will go, then take me along as well, my Lord. I have already stated that I remain forever loyal, and it is through this gesture that I prove it. Leave military affairs in the hands of the senior officer, and let us depart with due haste."

This request was reasonable, and was accepted. Thus, once the formalities of command were dealt with, the priest hurriedly guided the Prince and his companion to a dense collection of neem trees. This grove belonged to the Master of the Seasonal Mystery, who regularly lectured his flock beneath them. Only the learned, however, knew that the path to the Sanctified Hill began from here. Opening a trapdoor ingeniously concealed within the foliage, the pair entered a small tunnel. The priest lit a torch, and the pilgrims entered it in single file.

Despite the light, it seemed as if space ceased to apply in that dark place. The Prince could not tell for certain how distant he was from his companions, and he felt as if he had departed from the aboveground fifty moons ago. This subterranean world seemed to be the only reality he knew. Was it the only reality? Perhaps the concept of an aboveground was yet another trick of Maya, born out of the pining of fire. It could be that he had been judged, and his punishment was to spend ten kalpas with these two individuals, surrounded by dirt and silence.

	"We have arrived, my Lords. The rest of your journey will be simple, and I will leave you before the hill to perform your prayers. It could be that the Goddess has taken offense with priests, so it would be best if your unaffiliated souls made the suit for our City."

A second trapdoor was opened, and light poured upon the bodies of the pilgrims. It was a splendid light, a pure light, a truth-seeking light that fell upon the virtuous. When faced with such light, it coated not only the flesh, but the mind; vitality flooded his exhausted bones after a mere moment of basking within it. Such a light was the pride of the Sun, bringing reason and comprehension to the torpid ocean from which this mortal plane arose. It must be praised; ten thousand rituals would not suffice to encompass its magnitude; they would be performed regardless.

He felt it stream in his eyes, granting him clean sight. He felt it wrap around his bones, providing strength enough to leap in the mountains. He felt it stream into his lips, and they ached to sing hymns to the gods. This light so dazzled him that nothing could be seen beyond it. In a mere moment, his entire existence had been transformed into light. No sound could reach him here, only an infinitude of comfort. Wind blew across the plains, causing the grass beneath to tremble. The horses shook their manes and looked towards the sky. All these were visible to him in the blinking of an eye. They disappeared immediately afterward; he needed nothing but the light.

What was the purpose of this sublime moment? Was it not yet another Maya, softening the mind and weakening the heart with its timeless beauty? The opposite could be true as well, making it a brief glimpse at the Absolute. That which a million distractions have distracted the mind from—could it be subtly revealed to him now?

Here the Aide looked at the Reader, and started laughing.
	"We're nearly there, fret not."

The priest, moving with the discretion of prey, guided his followers through a tangle of plant growths and rocking crossings, eventually culminating before a small hill. Nothing in particular marked it as significant. This was their destination.

	"We have arrived, my Lords. I will conceal myself beneath yonder tree, the tallest one of its group. After you have finished your prayers, and restored the affection of the Goddess, come and fine me there."

He departed, leaving Prince and Aide alone. The former breathed in the dusty air with relish, and prepared for the ascent.

	"What a grand hill this is! Its worth can be immediately felt by the pious, and they desire nothing but to climb its lofty heights and commune with the Goddess. She has set one of her homes here, in its lofty heights, and we shall now ascend in the hopes of being granted even the slightest glimpse of it. Let us begin this task of tasks, and in its successful completion, restore the protection which our City has long enjoyed."

	"Do you recognize that rock formation over there?" inquired the Aide, pointing in a completely different direction.

The Prince followed his finger, and saw nothing but a long expanse of dirt. He looked back at the Aide in confusion. There was no Aide. Only empty air occupied where the dark-skinned one had just been standing.

Two Aryan cavalrymen were passing around the hill. They noticed the Prince, and set their steeds towards him.

What was happening? He was certain that, up until he had been fooled into looking away, the Aide had been standing to his left. If he had used the opportunity to flee, he could never have left without being immediately detected. Why were there nomads here? What was their purpose? Why did they immediately decide to charge him?

The Aryans attacked. He deflected the sword of one, and the other rode past him, leaning from his saddle with a rope. It wrapped around the neck of the Prince, tipping him over and making him fall to the ground. The assailants leaped from their saddles, bound him, and conducted him to their camp.

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He was now alone, trapped in some sort of pit meant for prisoners. He had no memory of being thrown in here, only of being captured by horsemen. He was standing upright and felt no pain, so incapacitation of his mental faculties was out of the question. It seemed as if reality had stopped even making the effort to appear believable. Was reality only to be found outside of this pit?

	"My apologies for the minimalistic approach to your capture, but once the basic elements were in place, I was at liberty to take some... well, liberties."

If the Prince had never felt the desire to gouge out of the eyes of a villain until this moment, he certainly did now. Gazing down into the pit with amused eyes was none other than the Aide, who looked directly at him. How he wished he were just a bit closer, so he could pull him into this space, flay him with his hands and teeth, then create an ladder out of his bones to make an escape! He was so execrable, so abhorrent, so incalculably foul in this moment, that the Prince desired nothing but to bring him anguish for the sake of anguish in this moment. Perhaps he would give some flawless reason for his behavior, or perhaps a third party would enter the scene; one sufficiently distracting to make him forget any inquisitive questions he might have asked the Aide. Perhaps he would do something completely different! The Prince would no longer accept anything that the Aide ever did. This would remain true forevermore.

	"I will not bother to give a justification any longer. There is no reason behind my actions; they are completely arbitrary. By now, there is simply no point in trying to justify things to a person who does not even exist. Just look at yourself! I am speaking with a void, and the void knows it not!"

He looked down at his arms.

They were finely formed; a veritable sea of muscles sculpted from the finest of empty air. Their nonexistence would awe any observer–or rather, the exact opposite. The cause of this was fairly simple: they did not exist. His eyes looked down at a vast expanse of nothing. The Prince could not detect a single piece of flesh or blood that clung to him in a way that confirmed his existence. He was comprised of nothing, and nothing else but nothing.

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The Prince finished his meal, then gazed around the fine site in which he had breakfasted. The light had ceased to flood the entire tent, and was now restricted to the entryway. The leaf upon which he was served was littered with little pieces of meat, and a strong smell of entrails permeated the space.

	"Did you enjoy your meal?" asked the Aide. "One petty morsel of meat would not have been enough for to satiate your appetite on this morning, so I took the liberty of serving you the entire head of your first horse. I am pleased to state that you devoured it with glee, gaining comprehension of boundless subjects while doing so. After, all, 'The head of the sacrificial horse is the dawn, its eye the sun, its vital force1 the air, its open mouth the fire called Vaisvanara, and the body of the sacrificial horse is the year. Its back is heaven, its belly the sky, its hoof the earth, its sides the four quarters, its ribs the intermediate quarters, its members the seasons, its joints the months and fortnights, its feet the days and nights, its bones the stars and its flesh the clouds.' And so goes the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, continuing on and on with its immortal words."
	"I suggest you reflect on the Upanishads one day, for they are now irrevocably entwined with your memories. As a Prince of the Aryans, they will certainly serve you well. However, I would recommend that you refrain from eating horse ever again, and that you advise those you know to practice the same."

The throat of the Prince burnt with an internal fire, and he gazed around his surroundings with perfect familiarity. He had always been a valiant prince, after all, and this tent aptly summarized his existence. It was a life of constant movement, and he was tasked with the protection of his people. Every suit he heard with complete-

That was enough. What he needed now was not comfort in internal fantasies, but answers.

	"I understand. You would like to know why, after living your entire life as Prince of the City, you are now presented with memories of an entirely different life, one which feels truer than your 'original' memories. In addition, you would like to know why thoughts of the Aryans caused you such trouble in your last few days as Prince of the City."

	"I would like to know all of these things."

	"Then tell me; after gaining a proper understanding of the Vedic tradition, rather than only experiencing it in fragments, it it not pleasant? Does it not comfort your soul? There is a reason for this. The traditions which were brought by the Aryans were already anticipated by the land before their arrival. Through their migration, they came came to settle the Seven Rivers. From there, they moved downwards, and they came to understand yet more of the secrets contained within the land. Their arrival was predestined, and this exact passage of events was required in order to ensure that they do it yet again, and continue to do so infinitely. It was necessary, lest the gods fail to attain completion."
	"There, do you not see how I have summarized my explanation to facilitate your understanding? I no longer have any need to use Brahman, nor any other device in speech. Through use of them, I had to occupy you for enough time for the predestined events to proceed as was ordained. The justice of which you previously spoke: this is its realization. I am the enforcement of an ideal on reality itself, forcing it into conformity through the use of power. The passage of events was completely arbitrary, and the law was utterly just. The woman you saw never existed in that city; she was simply the personification of the horse you were eating, and she was the infinitude contained within the animal."
	"Besides, we have can only ever make guesses as to what the customs of the City were. Was their fall by the hands of Aryan invaders, or through a drought? Did they have royalty as stated in the Vedas, or were they an egalitarian society? We can never know, and whatever form that the interpretation of that lost civilization takes will always be correct, so long as it maintains a veneer of truth. After all, is it not entertainment that is the primary goal, and not the logical union of confirmed facts? Well, that is what some believe, at least."

The Prince had lost all sensation. He could only move his mouth to speak, and had no interest in whatever he was saying.

	"So, then, what was it all?"

	"A dream. A dream of a great City, and of the people within. A dream of a different world; so very similar, yet ultimately different from the Vedic one."

	"I see. Then let all of it be destroyed. Let an avatar of me return to the City, addled by an unknown miasma, and do nothing. The remaining morale will utterly collapse, for the peoples' champion has lost his wits like the Traitor. I would like to wake up from this dream."

The Aide gently smiled at him. There was no more forced passion, nor any hidden agenda behind the smile. It comforted the Prince.

	"You truly are a hero of the theater. Your every action is made with purpose, and they end in the form of a conclusion. Your will, however free it may pretend to be, is simply a cloth that distracts the playgoers from the predestination which underlies it all. You have done well, for I knew–and every form of me in every reality knows–that you would say those exact words.

	"In that case, you also knew that I would do this, then," said the Prince, taking out his dagger and stabbing the Aide in the heart.

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The Prince opened his eyes. There was no longer any tent, nor much of anything else in the area. A few patches of grass littered the ground. In the distance, he could see the ruins of ancient brick, thousands of years old. No humans populated this area any longer, for the Indus Valley Civilization was long gone by this point. He gazed at it, and laughter burst out of his stomach.

It was a booming laugh, one that cleansed his mind of every attachment that could have possibly connected him to this desolate place. Truly, all his suffering was made worthwhile by that laugh.

Was he a Punyapurusa or a Papapurusa? Perhaps he was even a Mahapapapurusa? Yes, that sounded like a pleasant title.

Had he gained anything from his destruction of the Aide (ah, he understood who that being was now), anything at all? He had gained greater comprehension from the head of the horse, but perhaps he could have gained something else from that act? Well, whatever it was, it would be as arbitrary as the being that generated them.

That was enough of such thoughts. To pursue them any longer would be a waste; best find something pleasing that was easier to understand.

He looked behind him. There lied the corpse of a horse, possessing the conspicuous absence of a head. No flies flew over it, oddly enough.

There was also another horse; a fine, grey-skinned breed. This would suffice.

He leapt onto it, turned it towards a direction that he felt was reasonable, and set off. Where would it take him? Would this horse lead him to the corners of the world, or somewhere beyond even those?

He decided to let his steed decide that for him. Until he arrived somewhere, he decided to simply close his eyes, and enjoy the wind upon his face.