Godclads-Chapter 34-5 Forever (I)

I’ve spent decades trying to assemble an informational profile based on all the data we could gather on the savior, Jaus Avandaer. Decades of investigation, of simulations, of piecing together historical actions and disproving and discovering what were lies and deliberate misdirections of propaganda and fiction.

Through all this time, I’ve watched Jaus’s greatest crimes and studied his worst defeats, but still, through it all, I cannot get an infomorph that approximates the actual person. There is always a discrepancy—a failure, limitations, and mistakes that the true Jaus Avandaer would never make. I’ve often found myself asking why. Why, even after all we’ve discovered, all we’ve gathered, all the information we’ve archived, and with the full might of the majority behind me, it couldn’t work. Why I couldn’t create a proper infomorph.

My ultimate conclusion is simple. I think… I think it’s because we lie to ourselves. Most humans do, anyway. We lie to ourselves about why we do things. We lie to ourselves about why we ask for favors from the gods. We lie to ourselves about who we are and what we want. We lie because, so often, even after all that we have—whether gilded or merely unaffiliated, fated citizens or just another worthless subject—we lie because it’s not enough. Who we are is not enough.

Thus, he doesn’t really lie. He deceives. He misdirects. But ultimately, he’s absolutely honest, radically honest, and as close to objective as he can get about himself and others. And I think living this way has given him a clarity—an impossible clarity that few others ever discovered.

Now, what was basically an Inquisitor proved to be the most honest man in Idheim’s history, and perhaps even all existence. I don’t know. There are still pieces missing, but… but I think that our inability to reconstruct him isn’t a problem of details, but a deficiency in our ability to understand—in our ability to be honest with ourselves.

-Ori-Thaum Profiler on Jaus Avandaer

34-5

Forever (I)

“I think you are making a mistake,” Jaus said. His eyes fell on the table, but his attention was somewhere distant. His mind turned slowly, and it didn’t take a cognitive assimilator like Avo to understand—the man had retreated into his memories.

“What are you thinking about?” Avo asked, genuinely curious. Part of his being twitched. He was unaccustomed to asking for someone else’s opinions or thoughts now. It was so easy to just take, to consume, using his conflagration. But though Avo could do that right here, right now—and spare Jaus from death with the simple grafting of a Soul—he refrained.

Something about the man commanded him to hold back. Well, it wasn’t exactly respect; it was appreciation. Dealing with Jaus made Avo feel like he was observing a rare specimen—a strange animal, like an albino stag, or one of those natural apes recovered from an enclave.

“I was remembering what I did during the Godsfall,” he continued quietly, “how all the angst I’ve committed across the many wars steepled his hands in a gesture almost resembling prayer. I learned more about the followers of gods, and more about the cultures that spawned gods and the gods themselves—because how could we truly understand them? They are pure, an idea given intelligence and form, but ultimately never truly a choice.”

Suddenly, his eyes shot back to Avo, and it was like being pierced by a stiletto. The ghoul met his gaze, but there was something discomforting about the way the Savior could see right through him. “My wife—she enjoyed the killing. Her skill was a thing to behold, and ultimately, though that wasn’t why I envied her—I envied her because she had perfect peace of mind when she killed when she lived, when she chose to do anything. It was thoughtless, but also unburdened,” Jaus murmured.

Slowly, Zein crawled out from the depths within Avo’s Soulscape. She liked hearing Jaus’s words, but a part of her was ashamed, a part was horrified that he spoke of her this way. “I envied her because I thought so lowly of my fellow man,” he admitted, “of this urge, we have to be owned, to be guided by something that consumes our deaths, that drinks from our lives—and ultimately fails to give us paradise through utopia.”

He let out a laugh, as if questioning what paradise through utopia could truly be like. “You know, with all the holy texts I’ve gone through, all the canons and scriptures, do you know what is so often neglected, so often ignored?”

“Paradise,” Avo said, anticipating the answer.

“Paradise, utopia, Elysium,” Jaus replied, the last a deliberate jab at the Guilds. “We can imagine being content, being full, being stuffed with flavor, gored on set, or even filled by love. But what is utopia? What does a perfect world resemble? How can a world be perfect when we are so capricious, when we want more and more and more? We are not designed for it. I think the philosophers— they lay down their pens and go no further—because to fail perfection, failing even to capture it, might strike something deep inside us. Another primal fear.”

“That it’s impossible,” Avo added, offering an answer.

“Perhaps,” Jaus said slowly, “maybe that’ll be too horrifying for our fellow man, and through that we discover that the ultimate truth is we couldn’t live with each other after all.”

The two fell into silence, while the Paladins meant to guard Jaus simply forgot, again and again.

“This is why you wanted to surrender your Frame, why you didn’t take up a new Soul,” Avo said. This earned him a faint smirk from Jaus. The Godbreaker appreciated insight and subtext.

“There are too many reasons why I deprive myself of godhood—too many reasons, some poor, some personal, but ultimately, more than not righteous. We make poor masters of ourselves, Avo. You likely understand this more than I do, with all the minds you have churning inside you. But more than being poor masters, we are also poor disciples, poor sons, poor lovers, poor faithful, and poor fathers.”

It didn’t take an assimilator to realize he was speaking of Veylis.

“I’ve failed,” Jaus said finally, his voice heavy. “I’ve failed in more ways than you can understand—than you will understand.” He looked at Avo intently. “You will not burn me, you will not. I can see it in you. Your reluctance is more than hesitation—it is wariness. You have the capability, but not the want. Not the choice.”

Avo lowered his head in a nod of acknowledgment. “I think… I think I am wary of what you might do. How you might reshape my consciousness. Change me. I still can’t fully predict you.”

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“And so, are you desperate to preserve yourself then? Or is that a lie—a claim of selfishness—to ward off a feeling of… well, I can’t call it humanity, but I can call it an urge to save yourself. Preserve what you are right now. After all, I am a counter-element to your beliefs, and I can improve the ultimate inimical solution to your current chemistry.”

Jaus smiled slightly, as if aware of a joke that Avo couldn’t grasp. “I suppose I would like to thank you for that, but ultimately it does not matter. I cannot give you a proper answer for what you should or shouldn’t believe, what you should or shouldn’t do. I have tried my way. And either because of an inadequacy in my character, some combination of failures within the state I’ve created, or something infinitely more complex—I was insufficient. I could not protect humanity from itself. I couldn’t even protect my family from itself. My wife, my daughter—I stayed my hand with them, and I pushed too hard when I shouldn’t have. There are so many mistakes I can see now, looking back, but they will solve nothing, even if I could undo those moments. I think our fall was fated, because we are who we are, and eventually, given forever—a forever provided by utopia—we are destined to collapse, even more so.”

“Just like the voiders,” Avo said.

“Yes, just like the voiders. Do you think that you can do better? That you offer a means of final salvation?”

“No,” Avo replied, chuckling darkly. “Humanity doesn’t want final salvation. Humanity doesn’t even truly want paradise. I told you. I told many people—don’t believe in paradise. It’s impossible. Impossible and unwanted. I can create a perfect realm for an individual, for all individuals, but soon—someday, eternally—some will choose to cease, to no longer exist. Others will seek something different. And ultimately, for wanting new flavors alone, they will change. They will abandon paradise for hell. Because they will wish to experience what is counter.”

Jaus considered his words and eventually smiled. “I can agree with parts of that,” he murmured, “but I fear that such a thing would be like a gilded cage. Perhaps some would be fine with it, but ultimately, it also has a common point of failure.”

“Me,” Avo said, “but I am different. Not really a god-king as I am existence itself. As they dream, so do I. As they change, so do I. And as they decide, as they choose, so do I. If they are the dreamers within me, then I am no less a dream. And no more.”

“Poetic and melodic words,” Jaus shook his head. “I’ve spoken words like yours—perhaps not the same substance, but the same intent. To pull them to my side, to bring them close to my orbit, and deliver them into alignment with my dream. My dream, my poor, broken, fallen dream.” He paused, his voice tinged with regret. “It wasn’t this. It wasn’t to see mankind crash back down into its worst vices. To fail, despite all that we have rediscovered, all that we have achieved.”

Avo studied Jaus for a moment longer, and then something clicked—an epiphany. Jaus Avandaer was a remarkable man, a truly fascinating creature, but ultimately he was right. While he was merely a mortal—fantastic, remarkably smart, incredibly astute, but a mortal—that was what was missing. The problem is that the dream didn’t end. That it wasn’t done. That it didn’t have to be over.

“You describe it as a failure,” Avo said, “but nothing has failed. Nothing is over.” Jaus’ brow creased in incomprehension, yet he leaned closer. “It’s not done. You have said it yourself. You are still here. Perhaps not as the continuation of your original consciousness, but something close enough. You have not undergone info-death. And that is the true threat of death—the true meaning of loss: The permanent dispersal of a unique pattern of information.”

Jaus chuckled softly and shook his head, trying to hide his mirth. “There are countless scholars who would be very offended that you see life this way.”

The Hidden Flame shrugged. “Countless scholars would be offended that we do not pray in the right direction. Countless scholars would be offended that we allow men to be warriors. Countless scholars would be offended that someone with your eye color, your skin color, your place of birth, is allowed to dictate terms at all.” He paused, his tone bitter, wistful, and more. “It is a unique delusion of the human mind, but also something worth keeping, something worth exploring—a permanent catalog. Permanent. That is what I offer: continuation. To learn. To evolve. Tto change. You are wounded because your dream collapsed. But your dream is merely changing—these feelings, these sensations, this pain you feel, the shame you feel. It is an emotion, yes, but it’s also going to pass. It can be undone, or altered, or transformed with new experiences.”

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They were silent for a long moment until he turned inward. +Zein. Come out.+

[No,] Thousandhands said, his voice trembling as he looked pale as a sheet. Gone was the proud Glaive, the brutal master who had hounded him for months across New Vultun, nearly killing him time and time again. Now, in her place, remained only a mere mortal—a woman unable to face her own shame, her past haunting her still.

+You can—I will allow you to stay,+ she continued, +but understand that you delay the inevitable. You delay because eventually, you will not be able to sustain tormenting yourself. Will emerge anyway. Inevitable.+

He turned back to Jaus. “I am perpetuity. I am an evolution—a consistent, continuous evolution. And I offer one thing: one true promise. Life without finality. Life that doesn’t end. Because there is so much more to explore. So much more to flourish and grow into.”

“You think that the guild is the great enemy—that this clash of dreams is the great enemy—that war is the great evil.” Avo nodded slowly. “Yes, you are right. You are merely mortal. But I don’t seek an end of everything. A final point. I seek an end to this state of affairs—to this constraining nature of existence. I seek an end to this pointless torment, to all this fighting over what seems to be an impossible final design. I seek an end.”

His tone hardened, then softened. “But I don’t seek an end to war. Your daughter’s betrayal is disappointing, but it should have been allowed. The torment is horrifying, but it is also an experience. The worst thing is that she forced you into it, and so you couldn’t learn. You couldn’t return to do something else, to be someone else, or to take revenge or forgive. That is her great sin. And that is what I will rectify.”

Slowly, Jaus’ mouth fell agape. Then, and only then, did the Savior of Idheim realize the monstrosity he faced in the humanity of his counterpart. Avo wasn’t a monster of bestial design anymore. Far beyond the cravings of the flesh, beyond the casual cruelty carved into his genes and his very sinews, there was now something that regarded everything as true—everything as sensation, as memory, as an experience worth keeping.

Assimilation was only a facet of what he was now: experience, full respect and design, and a promise of absolute immortality, so that every sin may be rediscovered, every redemption may be sought, and every virtue might be practiced. For the greatest of all losses is to be unmade, to be lost to oblivion, before you can discover what lies beyond the end.

[I am ready now,] Zein declared, her mind racing, her body trembling. [I am ready. I wish to speak to him.Give me a body. Give me a body, before the weakness takes hold again, before I embarrass myself. If my teachings meant anything to you, Plague, give me strength. Give me might, now. I need you.] And that, too, was a choice. It wasn’t a prayer. It was simply a quest—one that Avo was more than happy to provide.

+Fine,+ Avo said, more like an acquaintance offering a favor. +I will give you what you need, free of charge. You chose to ask, and I choose to offer. No other way.+

And from within his hellscape, her mind was altered, twisted. Will and strength and the power to decide flowed in, fusing over the equivalent cracks that outlined her ego—the places that would fracture when struck with a specific trauma. At the same time, blood twisted out from his body, coiling and dancing in the air like strings from a zither. Slowly, they tumbled and merged with each other, coalescing as a new body grew into shape.

Jaus’s eyes widened, and he rose from his seat. “Is that—”

“Nothing is done,” Avo pressed. “Nothing is dead. This will not be the shape of things to come. This is not my will. Existence is indifferent. But I am not. And so it will not be. It will never be again.”