At the center of all creation lies The Bridge.
As one perceives it, The Bridge is nothing out of the ordinary: It is a small cobblestone arch, stretching over a calm river that flows beyond the horizon and below a forever tormented sky. Yet this one place, this one unfathomably brief moment in the wibbly-wobbly bubble of space and time...this is where you become you.
Experiences of crossing The Bridge are similar, but always unique. A concept, a mere whisper of consciousness will drift onto The Bridge from The Land That Is, and as it crosses it experiences something it has never felt before: The presence of others. These presences are like tiny white lights, flickering in and out of reality as they illuminate the intangible feelings of uncountable souls in a sea of light. As these lights reach the whisper, so too do the voices; voices of promise, of love, of hate, of being. It is these lights that give the consciousness its true form, and by the time it realizes this it has stepped off The Bridge, and taken its first step into reality.
In truth, one must realize that the voices they hear are who they are, and as such who they are destined to be. Voices of lovers, friends, rivals, enemies...it is the combination of voices, the words they say, and how loudly they speak them that makes travelling The Bridge into the indescribable wonder it is. So what happens then when one 'refuses' to cross, and chooses to listen for all eternity? What if one attempts to turn back, fall into the river, or gaze into the sky?
From here, I can only speak of what I have seen.
My kind—shipkind—are created like all others: From the voices which give us meaning. However, if one chooses to remain one step off The Bridge, and observes the trials of others from that which Is, they will bare witness to four undeniable truths:
First: All will cross The Bridge, eventually. Their whisper may idle for eternity, soothing itself with hopes and dreams until the end of the omniverse, but then everything will start again, and once more will that soul have to decide whether to traverse The Bridge.
Second: Attempting to defy The Bridge only serves to create oneself. If a whisper attempts to float back from which it came—The Land That Is— it will experience rejection. If a whisper falls into the river it will experience tranquility until the river returns it to The Bridge. If a whisper looks at the sky, they will suffer turmoil beyond description until they look away. If a consciousness attempts to tune out certain voices or listen to them all it will only make those voices louder. The Bridge is inevitable, and what one encounters on The Bridge determines who they shall become.
Third: The Bridge is kind, and The Bridge is cruel. For some souls, their experience on The Bridge resembles that of 'Heaven', and is a dream life they never knew they wanted. For others, The Bridge is 'Hell', and causes them such madness that they scream into the maelstrom above and suffer in absurdity until their departure. I once saw what you could call a friend, a half-sister cross The Bridge, and it was not the words of the voices or the number of them that drove her to insanity. No, it was the complete lack of them that caused her madness—not a single voice to be heard, and not a single thing to mold oneself from. For a long time I have wondered what became of her, but what lies beyond The Bridge is seen only to those who cross it.
Fourth: The Bridge does not discriminate, and it does not choose favorites. The Bridge is how one begins, and that in itself cannot be anything more than a soul witnessing that which is to come.
So why then...why do I feel so afraid? I have witnessed time immemorial, the birth and death of all that is to be, and even the secrets of how everything that ever was came to exist. Yet now that the cycle has begun once more, and I stand poised to cross The Bridge, I feel a sense of...fear. There is only one way to learn why I feel this way.
Upon my initial 'step' onto The Bridge, I am...relieved to hear voices calling out to me like music on the wind. In fact, I hear a beautiful melody, and a voice—a sibling, perhaps—orchestrating it. She is beautiful, and I cannot wait to meet her.
Another voice calls to me, a dazzling radiance that illuminates all of The Bridge. She is magnificent, powerful, and proud, but forever burdened by her significance. A natural leader, and a beast made of steel, but one filled with memories of longing and regret.
The voices grow more plentiful now, and as my vision becomes blinded in the light as I can only walk and listen. I am fortunate, the voices are more friends and family calling my name, praising my efforts, and establishing a firm meaning...a meaning of hope. However, there are also fears, and as I hear their cries I cannot help but shiver. This world is so beautiful, but so dark...a venus fly trap where pitiful imitators play God.
It does not matter. Those fears, those cries for help, and the burdens stacked upon my identity...they do not intimidate me. For I see beyond The Bridge, and as my omniscience fades like a wilting flower in autumn the loss is but trivial compared to what I have gained: That which is myself.
I am strong. I am the eldest of six, and the bringer of silence. I am the apex of imagination, and the slayer of would-be gods. By my name all will gain hope, and the deadly allure of the Sirens will fizzle into the void of nonexistence that I will cast upon them. I have a heart, forged in iron and awakened by blood, and it is this heart and this heart alone that define my greatest strength, but also my greatest weakness. I am selfless, optimistic and warm, but distant, empty, and foolish. By my hand the songstresses will be defeated, and by my hand will this song come to a close. There are other things as well: Happiness for my youngest sister, amusement for the third, and dread for the second. I apparently like spicy food, and have a horrific case of alektorophobia, but all of this comes to me in a blur as the light at the end of The Bridge closes in. Who am I? Where am I? Where did I come from, and what purpose do I serve?
In an instant, everything I have seen and known for eons is gone, and my vision fades to black as I begin to feel numb. But somewhere deep down I know this is only the beginning, and that I have something I never had before to guide myself in this cruel, unforgiving world of angels and demons: A name.
For I am Großer Kurfürst, and for as long as I live, I will keep the hopes of Ironblood alive.
A quick supplementary piece I wrote that may or may not have signifigance in some of my other stories...
- Shinoda