The perdition

Deep in the bowels of his darkness he stirred uneasily. Dawn was approaching and he could not but wait for it with much trepidation. His dawn was not like the dawn of the illusory yet deceptively tangible world. Dawn marked the start of the day and activities of most of these vain mortals. For him dawn was the rise of a ball of fire whose purpose and affects were much different from its heavenly counterpart. And the dawn was approaching earlier and with much more deliberation with the passing of each earthly day. This gave him lesser time to recuperate, to plot, to try to take over.

How had things gone so horribly wrong? He had been a fool to rejoice in that painfully short lived victory. Looking back, it seemed like it was no victory at all. No. that pseudo-victory had been the start of this inexplicable nightmare. If only he could glimpse the future. But he couldn’t. That didn’t belong in his bag of tricks that he was so proud of, which now seemed suddenly short so many more tricks he wished to possess. He couldn’t worry about that now. Dawn was arriving, much faster that it had previously. And he had to get tot work. Although the work weakened him he couldn’t stop. Stopping would mean the death of him or something morbidly equivalent, since mortality wasn’t known to his kind of entity.

This wasn’t always how it used to be. His abode was a welcome retreat. A place where he relished each moment of his existence and his many exploits thrived. He’d never required rest; it was as alien to him as mortality. Those little potent conscience-induced moments that his abode went through routinely, barely managed to slow down his pace. He had been relentless. He had been a conqueror. He used to successfully invade every thought and action and disposition that his abode manifested and turn them his way. And when the world slept, it felt like he’d attained an awakening beyond his perpetual wakeful state. So many possibilities, so many avenues of adventure, so much darkness, so much power. He was never carried away of course. He knew he’s being watched. He knew it better than any of these unsuspecting mortal fools who were often swept away by their unknown powers at the slightest ghost of his whisper. How he used to mock and jeer and laugh at them. How his soundless voice reverberated endlessly within the bounds of his abode. And when the great Opportunity had knocked at his abode’s door he’d welcomed it with much malicious delight. One slip and the world had been his. He’d marveled at his fortune, reveled at the complete shift if power to his hands, celebrated the senseless thrill of what seemed to be the biggest conquest of all. What a fool he had been!

Now it seemed like the power that had so gloriously peaked to its highest extent had just as rapidly plunged to a dangerously low level. Yet, he worked, he had to work; laboriously yet diligently. His work was what kept him going; gave meaning and purpose to his eternal existence; fed his go; empowered his prized arrogance. He felt raging anger. His abode had turned against him; threatened to expel his presence. He knew his extinction was impossible but the mere intention directed towards that impossible goal weakened the tools of rebellion that he treasured so much. He could start an all-out war. But he had and knew his limits. After all he’s being watched. What was iniquitously worse was that he was being attacked without prior warning. His abode had not only turned against him but fortified itself with unpredictable, mercilessly potent yet efficient weapons. His trickery and tools were mere playthings in front of such an arsenal.

What a shame it was! Why couldn’t he just get rid of them when they were lying there dormant and buried. They’d seemed so harmless then. He was so brazenly confident about the power of his tools and tricks. They were so easy to manifest. Humanity frowned upon them but was secretly slave to them. Such hypocrisy! What a charm and allure it had. His other tools were no less either. The seductive greed, the consuming selfishness, the thrilling anger, the soothing slander, the addictive grief, the hypnotic desire, on and on they went. Now these tools were the ones that lay dormant, occasionally unleashing their power, but feebly so, failing pathetically to cast a lasting effect. Now he was up against the fiery patience, the torturous gentleness, the unforgiving kindness, the harsh humility, the soul-searing love, the bludgeoning belief, the painful trust, the terrifying hope and so many more horrors that he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Dawn was upon him, the first rays of blinding light made up of devoted mind, fervent heart, praying lips and weeping eyes that cut like invisible blades through his dark dominion. Yet, he worked; used his tools; fought to get his abode back. He couldn’t stop. He had after all sworn never to.