My Gods . . . what have I done? Oh, please, please, forgive me . . . please . . . What have I done? Look at them! They played her game perfectly. She stabbed every last one of them in the back. She lied to them. Used them. Cheated them. And no one came to their rescue. No one cared. It worked so well it seemed to be a poorly written story . . . Oh please, someone forgive me for what I have done . . .
My name is Cid Previa, known throughout the Heavens as The Scholar. I was a planner of Dissidiae, wars between gods. For eons I walked the stars, proudly believing myself, an angel, that much greater than the gods for whom I worked. Until I gambled too high. I signed on to work for the Goddess Cosmos in her eternal struggle against Chaos. I thought that I could expose them for what they were to the Choir of Elohim, to the Gods of the gods. But I was fooled. I was wrong. I was short-sighted. I did not believe that things went as high as they did.
My plan had been to reveal all to Cid Lufaine, the God of Gods of gods. The Cid of Cids. The Highest of Highest. But I did not think that HE would be involved so personally in this. I should have noticed. Should have seen it. I was involved. My team was involved. Timelines, Gods, and so, why, then, didn't I see how far and wide this went? And I thought I could put the game of the gods to an end. Like trying to stop a forest fire with a tear drop.
And now, oh gods, now here I am, in this god forsaken sanctuary, this farce of a repose for Order. For all eternity a prisoner within myself, eternally bound to Lady Cosmos, slave to her, and continual planner for her petty struggles against the rest of heaven. My reports were sent, and The Messenger and the others have been on the run ever since. Thank gods that the Heavens are eternal, so there will always be somewhere to run and hide, even though their pursuers number amongst the all-knowing and all-powerful. And so their Hell in Heaven becomes my torment as well. Here I sit, forgotten, even by Cosmos' angels' and perhaps The Lady Herself.
But I have made my final play. My endgame has begun.
She was a pawn in Cosmos' Cycles. She played a part of the Dissidiae, and "The Fantasy" as well. What a name for a scheme that includes the lives of so many, the destruction of so many worlds and lives. Like some kind of sick, cruel joke. A display of cosmic distaste for the wellbeing of the mortal spirits which whatever force is higher than Cid Lufaine has entrusted to them. The gods have their "Fantasy" and their "Legend" and their "Tales" and "SaGa". But she will bring about my own story.
Yes, this spiritual daughter of mine will cause the "Final Fantasy."
Oh gods forgive me for this. Have I done this, truly? I am as cold and manipulative as any of them. I have taken a child and put her in this. Do I say child? Silly me. When we met, she was unborn. She has since run her life's course, and returned to this strange and sadistic afterverse. And I am now the one who pulls her strings. Can I truly do such a thing as this?
I cannot have such qualms. I cannot stop and think anymore. I have thought long enough. Either I break these chains now, or I succumb at last to the numbing love of Cosmos. I cannot resist much longer. Cannot retain my consciousness much longer before I am completely absorbed by Her . . .
How do I proceed? My whole plan had been to publish The Cosmos Report to the Highest and have Them deal with Her. But now I see that even the High Cid is involved in this madness. What do I do? If I but sit and wait, I will lose myself within Her. But if I remain awake, I will be consumed by my own guilt. I have used an innocent spirit and disrupted Eternity for something this petty . . . Vengeance. What's more, what is the end to which I play? If I dethrone He Whose Throne is Eternal, I will end the society of Heaven forever. I am planning an upheaval the likes of which no man has ever known, the likes of which would make the Heavens shake and the Depths tremble. I am going to take us all where angels fear to tread . . .
I am so ashamed of myself. Can any soul be so angry with oneself as I am right now? Worst is that I cling to that hatred as a way to resist the numb. I love the hatred of myself. I perpetuate it. I know I am no better than those I intend to bring down, and yet . . .
I just don't care anymore . . .
