Across All Times

Written by: Atem

The Artisan took one step forward on the bridge of light, feeling the palace on his back trembling ever so slightly.

He froze in his tracks — forcing himself to halt his breathing. One wrong move and everything he had worked for would plunge into the abyss surrounding him.

He waited.

The palace stirred, then returned to stable silence.

He continued.

The Artisan had trekked across the Cosmic Path for millennia and carried the palace on his aching back for even longer. Throne had stressed its importance. Without the palace, their world was nothing — an empty waste bereft of beauty and meaning. The Artisan was the only one who could change that.

And so he had been sent to the farthest reaches of the known and unknown to build the palace. The Artisan gathered all the knowledge, wisdom, and beauty that every empire of every world had to offer, and brought it back to Throne in one grandiose package. Never mind that he was not given a choice in the matter, for Throne willed it so. They had created him, after all, and shaped him from the sands of the wastes with the last of their cosmic power. He owed a debt of life to them, did he not?

The Artisan took a step, then felt a wave of pain course through his spine and down to his legs. His vision went hazy at the edges. He took another pace. The weight of a castle that could hold all the constellations of the night sky bore down on him.

He looked to his sides. He had heard tales of people throwing themselves into the abyss. It was said that once you fell into the inky dark, you would just… disappear. No pain, no suffering. Total oblivion. The best, most comforting kind of death one could ask for.

The Artisan took one step forward, then another; something inside the palace creaked, and he went as still as the void.

He waited for what felt like another century before he felt it safe to continue.

Then something else cracked, and he dropped to one knee as his spine curved inwards.

The palace leaned precariously to one side. The Artisan wrenched his body back to try and force the palace back to a stable position. He could feel the muscles in his body snap like frayed thread as if his lower half wasn’t there anymore.

Something watery began to cloud his vision; A remnant — a primal instinct he didn’t know the purpose of. The Artisan stared back at the abyss. The palace was everything. What would Throne think if he had lost it? What need would Throne have for a failure who could not do the one thing they were created to do?

At least he was certain the abyss wasn’t painful.

The Artisan shut his eyes and let the palace drag him with it as it fell, only to find himself dangling off the edge, watching the palace fall into nothingness.

Something hoisted him up and back onto the bridge just as he found himself staring right at the all-seeing eye of Throne. The Artisan’s throat tightened, the pain and fatigue coalescing into a single petrifying force spread throughout his entire body.

“I’m s-sorry…” the Artisan choked out.

“My child,” Throne’s voice was sonorous and booming, like the low rumble of a cosmic thunderstorm. “Do you really think so little of yourself?”

“I failed you, Throne,” the Artisan said, “I am not worthy to be your child.”

“Because of the palace? Constructs and monuments are grand, but what good are they if no soul is around to appreciate them? Failure is not your end.”

“But you told me… that without the palace, our world was nothing. A barren waste unfit to be a celestial body.”

“Achievements grant us glory and prestige, but they are merely just that. They are concepts — intangible, abstract, and meaningless until we give them meaning. Yet, your life is irreplaceable, child.”

The Artisan could only blink as Throne’s all-seeing eye made him witness to all possible futures.

“If you had perished now, I would not be able to hear your elegant melodies when you learn to play the harp. I would not be able to witness your joy when you finally finish the sculpture you had spent eons crafting. I would not be able to hark your laughter as you recount the tales you’ve learned during your travels.”

“Nothing can absolve me of my negligence, my own failure in telling you that your life does not depend on a single mistake. But I want you to remember that regardless of what you’ve done or what you’ve failed to do,

You are nothing less than beautiful.”