Zosimos

: “…Zosimos?”

: “Was … Zosimos also one who held the fire, Bahamut?”

takes another slow, deep breath of a new-old scent in the forgotten air, its own voice rumbling with emotion. “Zosimos. He who sung me awake, and carved the Mask. He… hrrrrf.” Its head sways back and forth. “He carried the fire.”

: “He who carved the Mask? Was a yeresh?” The naked shock in Wolf’s voice is not something Salme has probably ever heard before.

: “He was a (person who carried the fire)- hrrrf.” Bahamut paws at the darkness that yawns below and to all sides of it.

: “Before he died, he…”

: “He spoke truth into the fire. He taught people how to carry it. He said that there were things that ought to be remembered forever.”

rumbles, again, softly, and presses its enormous snoot against Wolf’s other hand. “He said– he told me about a world ‘before.’ A world that broke. He always sounded like he was sorry. Like he felt responsible for what had happened. But he also—“ -its voice is fond. “He always sounded like he felt responsible for -everything- that happened. I don’t– hrrrf. He, also, asked ‘why’, and he sounded much like you, when he did so. When only I could hear.” And it rubs its nose against Wolf’s hand, again, incredibly gently, in a way that suggests a thing it’d once done to try and cheer Zosimos up, too.

rumbles, thoughtfully. “I remember… he looked like a human, but… more. Brighter. His eyes were very kind. He was already old, when he sung me awake.” Another soft rumble. “And he told me that- the world he knew had been beautiful, but that the world I knew was, also, beautiful. I know that is not an answer to -any- question, I…”

: “You have done more than enough, great Elder,” Wolf adds, gently. “I am sorry. In our own desperation, we grab at any straw. I do not have…more questions, but…if I may? Do you…do you remember his Song? If you remember, strongly enough, I think…I could hear it. I can Hear more clearly than most.” He smiles, wistfully. “I would like very much to hear it. A song of Eld.”

rumbles, and paws at the darkness, and the rumbling turns into a low hum you can feel in your bones- simple, unadorned, and it’s a melody you’ve heard before, that you’re well familiar with- that you’ve heard arranged to lyrics with your mundane ears, even, in Synthesis’ voice.

cannot help the way immediately everything falls away, and a haunting certainty fills her—though, certainty of what she couldn’t say. She turns to look at Wolf.

picks up the melody–even the baritone thrum of his voice is a good octave higher than Bahamut’s, and it lends a deep warmth to the notes…a melody like wind through the trees, brightly bittersweet and defiant by turns. The first song that he heard, before waking up in the Sanctuary’s silence. He sings it through, once, then lets his voice fade away. “Oh,” he says, faintly.

looks, briefly, overcome, when Wolf’s voice cuts in, but it keeps singing, until it feels like the right moment to stop.

softly, his voice thick with tears: “His song is known, Eldest. His song is still sung.”

: “How,” she begins, a little roughly, and then, more firmly. “Can you tell us how Zosimus died?”

: “I am glad.” And then, to Salme, and gently, and very very softly: “Curled up against my warmth, surrounded by his students and friends. He lived much longer than humans lived. But he was very old, and– he said it was his time to return to the worldsong, having done what he could, and so.” It bows its head. “We sang for him, and carried on his will. He knew that– something was going to happen. The Mask Shrine. It was prepared for me; I knew where to find it. He told me, before he died. That he did not know what would happen, precisely. But that something would, that he had prepared the world for it, as best as he could. And.” It paws at the darkness. “Hrrf.”

: “First, I must ask your patience. I wish to first explain my reasoning behind my exploration, and then the result itself, which may take some time. I shall try to be as brief as can be managed.” Wolf starts to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, making precise turns on his heel every time he reaches one side of the room–in many ways, inadvertently making himself the absolute picture of a scholar chewing on a particularly gristly thought. “The figure of Zosimos has plagued my thoughts since I learned of him–not only that he was very possibly the creator of my order, but that he had imbued the world itself with certain truths otherwise to be lost. Learning that he seems to have been a figure, of a similar nature, on at least three of the worlds only increased my curiosity.” ⁂

: “Furthermore, knowing that he created the Mask but did not wear it, combined with the knowledge from Bahamut that there was very likely information that Zosimos had been trying not to share with him inflamed my desire even more. What knowledge he concealed being, almost certainly, of far more import to our quest and an understanding of the world than what he left for others to find.” Pace, pace, pace, turn. Pace, pace, pace, turn. “But it seemed to me that there might be a way to glean knowledge in a way that he could not prevent. I believe I mentioned on the linkpearl that his ability to ‘sing truth into the Fire’ might be a more extreme version of that which allowed Tasna to imprint herself onto the Rite, yes?” He pauses, looking to the other two for confirmation of his own memory. ⁂

: “Yes,” she nods affirmation. “And, for an additional resonance—the Duelist’s Mask as a vehicle of memory, but also obscurity makes a kind of. Well. The kind of sense poets and storytellers like to make.”

looks at Caion, sharply. “Do you really think people need the threat of a thoughtstorm to jealously guard knowledge? Ego. Shame. Fear. We can’t know. Or. Well. We can’t know yet.” She turns her gaze back to Wolf, watching him intently.

: “Indeed,” Wolf says, nodding at Salme. “And I shall return to the Duelist’s Mask after a time.” Pace, pace, pace, turn. “And an excellent question, Caion. I was, and am, most curious as to what he would feel was so destructive as to conceal from the new worlds.” Pace, pace, pace, turn. “In any case. If this were true, and the technique was similar, then perhaps the act of imprinting these truths onto the Song of each world would itself leave a trace of Zosimos that one with the appropriate knowledge and ability could trace–just as one can tell what kind of brush makes the letter-stroke from the formation of the letter itself. The Song and the Singer are not separate, they cannot help but touch each other. And Bahamut, perhaps by accident, gave me the scent that would enable that hunt. He gave me Zosimos’ song.” ⁂

makes a surprised and pleased hum at that. “Ah so you had a dual purpose in asking. How sly of you, Wolf.” She sounds extremely approving.

smiles wryly at Salme. “You do me too much credit, my friend. At the time, my interest was only to know such an extraordinary song. What else it might unlock came later.” Wolf takes a deep breath, seems to be considering his words carefully. “Recently, I went hunting. As you both know, I have a remarkable ability to hear the Worldsong, an ability that extends to Samudra as well as Almachadta. Many times in my youth did I allow myself to drift in its depths, gleaning small bits of the visions within, basking within it like one might laze within a bath. But there were always depths below that, to which I did not go, for I feared for my ability to return to myself if I dove into them. But I am no longer a child, and the Awoken had, albeit inadvertently, given me a paradigm by which I might recall myself if lost in the depths of the Song.” ⁂

: “Tethering myself to my body with an anchor-line of tenebrous gnosis, I resolved to dive into the depths–as far as needed–and to hunt there for Zosimos’ song, and upon finding it, see what might be found within it.” He allows himself to look just slightly smug. “And I succeeded.” ⁂

: “First, I was able to ascertain for certain that Zosimos’ song–the one notated in our knowledge as ‘Sanctuary’–is present deep within in Samudra’s Worldsong. That there is a source that sustains it. And I located that source.” He looks smug, but also…increasingly ‘chewing on gristle.’ “At first, it appeared to me to be a ball of blue light, which I reached out to…” Wolf’s expression becomes one of deep consternation and chagrin. “And found myself in the midst of a small school of noöplankton.”

: “My reaction entirely, yes,” Wolf says drily.

waits a beat to see if there will be any further reaction, then continues–not pacing this time so much as swiveling back and forth in place. “The song was not coming from all of them. The song was coming from one of them. And…” Now his expression is deeply troubled, but also…baffled. “Forgive me, what I am about to say may sound somewhat insane, but I have examined my own memory several times now and I am sure of what I experienced.”

: “Is Zosimos a fucking noöplankton?”

blurts it out before she really thinks but. What else is she supposed to think?

blinks at Salme, and then looks very cross for a moment, before laughing in amusement and exasperation. “Sister, I do not tell the endings to your stories!”

takes a deep breath, clearly doing the mental equivalent of shuffling through his notes to make sure they’re still in the right order, then continues his back-and-forth swiveling. “When I reached out to the noöplankton, in the moment before I made contact, I had the most…peculiar sensation.” He frowns, staring off into the middle distance with an opaque expression, his voice going distant. “It was as if…time itself, for just a moment, ceased to be a forward-flowing river. As if past, present, and future, in some way…were all the same, were all then, now, immediate and yet…” He chews on his lower lip in silence for a moment, movement stilling, barely seeming to breathe. “As if the distance between aeon and instant had collapsed. As if all of time was happening in that one moment, that one spot. As best I could, I embraced the paradox. And reached out.” His eyes refocus, his voice returning to its normal strength and timbre. “I made contact. And in that instant, I knew–knew as absolute truth–that the noöplankton in front of me was….is? Was. Zosimos.”

: “Did the noöplankton Sing? Did it feel … different, from the others? Aside from that moment where time … stopped making sense?”

: “It looked different. It…did not speak to me, as the others did, at least I don’t believe it did. The song, Zosimos’ song, was emanating from it, sourced from it. I cannot say it was singing, actively, but…it was the source of the song nonetheless.”

: “So,” and where Wolf had been pacing, and then swiveling before, she now takes over. “Not ‘is’ a noöplankton in the sense of … say, if I suddenly turned into a frog, but ‘is’ a noöplankton in the sense of … whatever he once was, whatever he may be again, part of him is inscribed on this particular noöplankton. Part of it, perhaps, bears his memory?”

shrugs, helplessly. “I do not know. I learned no more. I…asked. But received no reply. All I know is…it was Zosimos.”

smiles very faintly. “I know. I simply…know. Water is wet, leaves are green, and it was Zosimos.”

says it with the same level tone as you would mention any other clear and obvious fact, like ‘Jorule is a git.’

nods, and then…turns to Salme. “Sister, I know it just returned to your possession, but…may I take the Mask, briefly?”

can’t help the inadvertent curl of her fingers, the desire to say ‘no,’ but she—this is about trust. She nods, and pulls the Mask out of the pouch, offering it to him with both hands.

takes it, bowing over it as he does so, and then holds it lightly in his fingertips, reverently stroking his thumb over one cheek of the impossibly old wood. He evens his breathing, purposefully, his voice starting to become distant as he speaks and begins to focus at the same time. “They are the same age. The noöplankton and the Mask. He carved the Mask. They are constants, both of them. I wonder if…he did not wear the Mask, because he did not need to. Because it was, also, him.” Wolf lets his eyes go heavy, reaching for that sense of…time-full timelessness. He hums softly, that bittersweet defiant tune. Sanctuary. “Let expanse contract, let aeon become instant,” he breathes, and reaches for liminal gnosis.

: “So …” she begins slowly. “We are not talking about a single man named Zosimos, but multiple versions … iterations of the same man?”

frowns deeply. “I think…more like…the same man…starting from the same point…going in different directions? Yet…”

: “They are not the same in a…fundamental sense. The noöplankton is the noöplankton, the Mask is the Mask. But…the man who crafted the Mask, and the man who became the noöplankton…were the same person, but they were not.”

makes a frustrated little gesture with his hands. “I know the feeling of him now. His resonance, his song. Zosimos carved the Mask. Zosimos became the noöplankton. I can tell, because I can feel that resonance on both of them. But it is…the same chord in different voicings.”