Exigence - SCP Foundation

My song echoes an old epic unsung by the masses.

My song echoes an old epic unsung by the masses.

My words come, not of what I know, but what I have been given,

not from mortal mind, nor by minds unconcerned by the passing,

nature, she is mischievous, with tall tales and betrayed vows,

but these fables are not to be sung by the rhythm of wilds.

The bards who pluck strings will profess no recognition

when asked, whether in bars or, for certain events, in the fine halls,

via drunkards or royalty, all who desperately beg them

to strum this one old and peculiar verse to their good friends.

These vows, while not intended as falsehoods, disguise the key facts.

Namely concerning the dreams of musicians and poetry masters

which all, through fate's strong hand reach to the part of the world

were these lyrics assemble in chorus, sadly departing

when they wake. Here I name myself unlike the others,

due to absence of agency. I shall recover a mythos

empty of thought and without will because this bit of folklore

cannot be my own. I write with the quill of a thousand.

I shall write on the paper of more. This is not a story.

But the story. The one that grants us all others.

It is a love letter scripted by pen to the parchment.

These are the syllables past that were drowned through corruption and failure.

This is the rhythm that quiets, but shall not and can not be silent.

This is the dawn of a Hero.

Ages and eons ago, there lived one ruler of all things.

For each vassal he took himself a new name, with it came strength.

To one servant appearing as master of forges and blacksmiths,

to others, guises of love, beasts, travel, and light were what they knew.

But one name was above all others, king, and as all know,

a king who is without heir must rule shamefully. Therefore,

this man, who would halt in response to no force in this world

except challenges that his own pride could not let him ignore,

saw this disgrace as no frivolous issue, flensed from his kingdom

mighty pieces of land and beside them mightier titles,

and forged this strength all in a powerful mass so it could be

his son. Then, the remainder of these lost letters of lifeblood

found themselves in a crude snare, gripped by an emperor forlorn,

all for the purpose of further creation and passing of birthrights.

These strange faces enrapt by the one who lacks a description

had their shapes transfixed into something new, unexpected,

cold. One circlet of pure gold, inlaid with gemstones of two types.

The first: black. True darkness embodied, with all of its comfort.

Gentle embraces of night shall always provide the requested

chances to sleep, which any of those who work have in their prayers.

The other: Red. The color exactly of blood, with its vibrance.

Coursing along in the veins of a soldier, fighting for glory

just as he fights for his freedom and honor, valiant virtues.

After assembling this trophy, the fool who surrendered his power

handed it down to his sole heir. Then, because all of his names fled

the man, once an immortal, degraded with time, as do all men.

Whether the loss was in mind or in body is known to but one soul,

whichever took place, through some means or another, the grey one

had sod layered atop him. But some things always refuse death.

From fresh grave dirt, the names grew. Rapidly, at the beginning,

slowly, upon their correct form taking its roots in the soil.

Shapes of a city rose from the deep ground, then, all at once, stopped.

The city was complete and its gold throne seated the named heir.

In turn, this crown bearer had one offspring, such a daughter

whose fame outweighed all, even his, not due to her title,

the cause lied in her beauty, which surpassed even thoughts of perfection,

since mortal minds cannot understand what such a word means

most souls choose to envision their personal interests as ideal,

what they miss is the force that unites them collectively,

beauty of this sort transcends past the subjective to reach truth.

This is the reason behind the amassed suitors in the courtyard

From all stations and walks they come, like a roaring inferno,

drawn to an insect, which grows in cocoons, that has been dried,

left to the mercy of nature, the one who is fickle and heartless.

Flames could always go up the defenseless tree and in one move

swallow the bug with a passionate kiss until both of the hearts warm.

This was her fate, which she all but accepted as certain and noble.

This was her fame, which her parent embraced. Henceforth, he was known as

Father and she, the Girl.

There are, however, towns not part of the city of named ones.

These towns fail to appear on the maps that travelers carry,

due to the strange fact that no wandering soul can arrive there

(setting aside some entities who need no introduction).

Entrance is not an option, only escape, which only a few found,

most through death, which, as all know, serves as the easy solution,

some through tricks so real that even the memories were fooled,

one through nobler means, unexpected by kinsmen around him,

mainly because the one who left was a stranger to their minds.

They knew only of the boy, who would toil for hours,

grow, painstakingly, sown seeds, saplings, and sprouts in the soil

and reap all that he could from the world around him without care

but, at the same time, there was no ill will in him, simply

put, he was just young, selfish at times, as are mortals eternal,

when they tell white lies to convince their friends and companions

that they are not that thing which they happen to seem like.

This boy, who lived lacking a father or parent of different

sort, thrived using the farm that his departed adults left,

but, that does not grant him the life he is destined to handle.

Sensing his future ahead, this boy found passion in tall tales,

seemings of things that were not real, and distortions of what were.

That is a beautiful thing, but not one that is approved of

in one's own lifespan. So the boy lived sadly and lonely.

Then, as he labored to plant all day while the sun, in its cruelty

seared skin just as a flame that climbs up a tree to assault those

who most days would seek out fires in foolish amusement

rapt in the dreams of a light that they can hold in a sixth leg,

illness came and fatigue rose sharply until the essence

left his internal chamber and passed on. Thereby, losing his bright spark,

this boy fell to the ground, dead.

That is impossible. This tale hurts to inscribe. It is something

wrong, or mistaken. This boy lived, most certainly, just not

held in the same form that he expects. This change is a comfort,

brought by his own deeds. While Death swept through unfinished fields of his labor

wrapping around roots, stalks, and a few scorched flowers, sinking

teeth in the sun-seared flesh of the life-starved boy in the dry fields,

forces amassed to allow the betrayed boy life yet renewed. With

cries to the dead and alive soul watchers, he rose up off black ground.

The boy died, but the Hero lived.

Heroes awaking in fields lack memory, yet they replace it

with drive, destiny, dreams, and desire, the virtues expected

from eyes that watch their lives. Who could not be incensed with

purpose upon seeing their work half done? And the Hero,

who is as driven as any, attacked ruthlessly the labor.

Spade serving as a weapon to crack stubborn and unyielding

dirt. In his dextrous phalanges abundance of kernels cascaded,

spilling onto the soil until ripe trunks and spelunking

roots thrived. Like monsoons tear lifeless topsoil from stone beds,

leaving pools in their wake, this brave Hero, who nurtured along life,

left bright vibrant trees in his domain, watered with cold sweat.

Harvest approached him before dusk fell. In his heart, the conscripted

Hero observed an affection for home, although it had never

shown him the same love. So, as a gift from his newly acquired

fate, he assembled the town as one mass, calling together

youthful and ancient until they questioned his motives for meeting,

as would any in their shoes.

Thus, in response, did the Hero assert with a cunning announcement:

"Friends, you will always astound me with your fear. Please, am I so cruel

that to be seen in the same building is a sin? Can I not hope

that a companion would be beside me in my weak attempts to grow?

I only wish to unearth your kindness. Or, is the concern

not me? My produce is pristine I assure you of that much.

Then is the flaw in my home? It is small, I confess, but if that is

all, then I must recognize nothing binding our communion

to the interior. Come, sit on grass, eat from trees, I am hosting

you, and the town as a whole, for a reason. After we live free,

just as we all must someday, you will awake to an absence.

I will have left for the city and never returned to this wasteland.

I do not need to command you against crying, as I notice

no tears. Sad, but expected. Fame is a wonderful concept,

thus why stories are told of the famed, but it means less than nothing,

to me, at least. No, this performance is not an attempt to

make myself loved. I do this for a simple and plain cause:

I can, therefore I should. What else could be the central

drive of a Hero? So eat well"

These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied

down on the ground, but in doing this, faded to sleep in an instant.

While he was splendid in spreading his spoils, he proved to be, sadly,

quite inexperienced at the commanding of guests and so they took

all of the treasures they could. While hardly amounting to greatness

their hoard marked a betrayal the Hero enraged his own self by.

Thus, like a cyclone carving a course of attack he announced his

exit and through the aggression he brought each traitor to their knees

(such statements shall kindly be left unspoken by this tale).

Then, with his boots laced fully, he strode until home was a distant

memory. During the journey he felt watched. But he was not quite

cunning enough to observe the observer and so he continued

walking along to the city

Valiant deeds made themselves known to the Hero whose name was

called by the world itself. Here, soldiers recruiting for bloodshed,

there, lost victims in need of a leader. The Hero who sowed grain

knew that his true goal rested away from the noise of the needy.

So, he discovered the true gemstone of the city, the Girl,

standing upon her balcony just as a stone on the mountain

pinnacle perches precarious, crowds from around the entire

world amass to observe how long it survives in its strange stance.

The brave Hero observed this cruelty and vowed to defend her,

shoulder the weight of her hand, and to give her his hand in return. But,

such threats stood in the way of his quest: the convening admirers,

laws of the city denouncing an outside marriage, and worst yet,

the Father, so strict he would stop his own daughter from wedding

rich, poor, noble and cruel. All suitors regardless of merit

are cast far from his door. The dauntless Hero, a brave youth,

openly wept at the challenge. These wise lacrimal drops pooled

down by his feet and created a gate for a being to cross through.

Hearing his carefully-chosen emotions, it felt that it must take

pity and came to his aid.

This old entity hails from before the Hero, the Father,

even the one whose names are innumerable. This visitor called

herself Mildiga, Matron of Magic when names were a treasure,

staking her claim as a figure of power she clutched her possession,

halting attempts to remove it until she was seen as an equal,

even a threat, by the patron of titles, and barred from his kingdom.

Mildiga, Matron of Mischief, became forever unique. Thus

unrecognizable to his domain. This failed to prevent her

finding a way inside. So, Mildiga, Matron of Monsters,

whose jaw coils down to her legs, set out on a strange hunt.

Seeking a crack left unchecked. She found one in the Hero,

whose sad thoughts are enough to control his surroundings until they

bend to his will and attempt to repair what wrongs he has lived through.

The wise Hero knew half of the matter, his tears were a technique,

summoning such a monstrosity never was what he intended,

but he knew that his sadness caused a solution to answer.

Thus, to the stranger he spoke:

"Specter of one face, speak, and address what aid you may grant me.

I know not what legends you hail from, but I beseech you, take

pity on this poor soul and his humble predicament. I am

no king, prince, nor even a man. I am but a dismayed boy.

seeking assistance to wed such a splendid Girl as this one,

but her Father refuses her hand. Sway, smite, or supplant him

so that I may care for her often and sing to you praises

from our happy abode so much that the city repeats it."

These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied

his strong body against stones laid by his feet so his senses,

vision and texture and body and mind, could leave his awareness.

Those thoughts flew from the Hero and entered the mind of the stranger,

Mildiga, Matron of Malady, planting their roots in the closed ears

that so often are peeled to entrap sounds, words, and emotions,

only to seal tight so they can no longer escape. Then,

contemplating the meaning and repercussions of each one.

She stood, silent, gazing upon this form of the Hero.

Each word used to describe him attempted to strengthen his visage.

Then, her appearance adjusted itself so a smile along the

stretch of her mouth would form. She concluded the Hero was named right.

Thus, she bestowed him her favor.

With these forces of nature assembled together, the world

saw no choice but to yield and provide for the Hero a window,

like a paternal decision to give to their son the potential

chance of a failure. This judgement was made unbeknownst to

souls of the world and kept that way to avoid a deception.

As fate's pen can be swayed by a crafty conspirator's cunning.

Destiny hid its involvement by masking its actions as free will,

just as it always attempts to.

The next fortunate day, an announcement came from the father.

That past night, in his dream he observed what he feared was the future,

his own self, but alone, no one to protect him and no one

guarding his daughter. This dream felt so real that he lost his

senses and swiftly contracted a mania once he awakened.

Such an insanity sent this announcement to all of the city:

"Long have you lingered and waited for glimpses upon steps.

I have forced you away in the past, but I find that I must now

turn and embrace your attempts to embrace me and my daughter,

joining the household that bears the crown. While my reception

used to be cold, I now must thaw my icy demeanor.

No good thing will appear if I fail to allow it to hurt me,

medals are not won without risk, and rewards are not given

out but to those who are willing to suffer. So, I proclaim this

out to the world to send me the best that you have and to let them

try to impress me to win a betrothal to her, my beloved

daughter whose beauty can bend lands, oceans, and heavens alike, yes,

shown by the crowds by my door, but among those suitors there must

be one worthier than the remainder who truly deserves my affection.

Come all. Prove your merit until none raise an objection.

Come if you think it is your fate."

Suitors arrived by the score. Not unlike a migration flock

flying to southern oases in winter to drink of the nectar

and to consume the botanical wonders they are to but dream

their mouths will touch during the summer and spring. Then, in colder

months, when all life finds no food, their desperate attempts are

in good company. They and the father are hungry for kin.

They, for a family they can protect, and the father for children

that can protect him. Now, as the hordes are approaching he feels pride.

Standing above his paternal domain, eyes glancing between eyes

watching for signs of success or of failure before the beginning

even arrives. That one stands poorly and pitifully, that one

speaks too loudly to neighbors and friends, that one and that one.

Miserly, every contender appeared to him sad and pathetic.

He, as a beggar and chooser combined saw champions as fools.

None more so than the Hero, the worthiest challenger, whose worth

seemed to the father the worst of the lot. None even compared in

value to what was imagined inside of his mind, so he only

saw the reverse of the truth. Those close to his vision were horrid

since they reminded him what his desire was truly, and furthest

ones were the only he trusted. The Hero, by such an imperfect

paradigm, was the worst.

Even the father though could not send them away without reason.

"On to the first of the trials" declared the paternal announcement.

Swifter the start then the swifter the end, in his head, so the less time

spent with explaining the task to the fools he already discounted

based on their merit, the better, he thought. Thus, this he declared once:

"Show me strength. Face one foe. Take from them a concession."

Silence rang through crowded courtyards when the assembly

knew what was meant. Each came here prepared for a battle

but most ones had expected a battle of words where displays of

confidence triumphed atop the displays of their worth and their lies reigned.

But, as the strict judge viewed their attempts with wisdom and cunning,

knowing the cowards who filled these grounds he proclaimed this to scare them.

He wished not for a drop to appear as a stain on his soil.

Though, when he carelessly spoke, his intentions failed to be made clear,

so did it go, as the words left him, the malicious and desperate

sought out who in the crowd was the easiest person to target.

Their eyes held no merciful shreds of humanity. They were

monsters shaped to their pinnacle.

Like hunting hounds placed in a kennel upon their return home

after their chase of a frightened quarry who barely evaded

them and their fangs. The hunger they feel slaughters their patience

so they snap and they bite at the dogs that stand in between their

jaws and the meat that the hunter propels to the crowd of the cruel curs.

This is the force that surrounded the Hero who seemed, in the cunning

vision of these beasts, merely a farm boy, thus a delicious

morsel of prey. Waves folded in themselves vying to strike him.

Quickly the Hero deduced who led the attack by the eyes of

Mildiga, Matron of Mystery, outcast who from above sees

all. That person he saw was wielding a blade that he feared could,

just as he feared that the bearer would choose to, kill, and their hand would

not back down. So, then did the Hero decide that he could not

face this person in bloody assault. As a seafarer scribes maps,

naming and claiming the lands that belong to the sun up above, and

then as the voyager takes those lands as they hammer a flag, and

just as the long forgotten and buried lord had procured all,

not by his birth or his strength, but by his commanding demeanor,

in this way by the Hero's imposing will he acquired

that blade, dreaded before, it became hallowed by his action.

He chose not to respond to his foe likewise, and instead bowed,

no true Hero attacks those not in control of their actions.

This old, unknown kindness showed that the Hero deserved this,

causing the cad to concede to him.

Then, as the Father observed what only is said to be chaos,

his heart started to feel for the plight of the suitors and speak out

but some force chilled him and refused to allow him to show love,

making him just the opponent the Hero desired to conquer.

The first task was complete, for the Hero at least, and he felt proud,

but as the rage of the Father accrued, he chose to proclaim forth

new rules. The bold strength, he presumed, could not be of purpose

when this Hero was tested on wit. So he spoke to the suitors:

"Cease this nonsense. You are worthless brutes even when at your

best. I will weed out which of the crowd can face the conflictions

that will arise as you live in the world of class that the marriage

sought will entail. I have faced the destruction of things that I held dear.

Here I refuse to lose what above all else is important,

my young one, to fools that lack wisdom in its best form."

Silence spread as the Hero and others awaited with ears peeled.

"My crown, passed from the one who rose the community lives safe

in this home. Now, enter and grasp it to prove you have cunning,

or turn back now in shame."

Fear spread through men, women, and others amassed to the contest.

They all knew what the house hid, ancient assortments of risen

threats, remnants of the lost and forgotten progenitor. All feared

this force. All with exception of one. A fool in a manner,

brave in another, the Hero, a foreign traveller, knew not

what others feared, as he never was audience to what the folklore

said. Oblivious, he ran with no pause at a bolt's pace

into the door and across the demesne as the innocent threshold

made him believe that no names lurked in the shadows around him.

Strangely correct, as by rot and decay, they lost their descriptors,

but whatever remained did so a definitive disgrace

both to itself and the one it came from. Only defined by

what, where, when. How, why, and especially who were disposed of

ages before the intrusion today. That Hero, who now saw

what the competitors feared, stood firm as the something or other

gathered around to consume all that they lacked. But the Hero,

with the grace of a butcher's knife that slices between bone,

gristle, and viscera with ease, cut each threat with the chartered

sword and acquired the crown. This symbol of power perplexed

him. What use is a tool kept secret away from me? Thought the

Hero, expected to hand back what he had rightfully deserved.

simply complied, as is proper.

Having defeated the first two trials the Hero proclaimed his

triumph. The father, however, objected on steadily less ground.

No test could stand up to the Hero who vanquishes dissent

as to his right to the hand of the Girl despite his ignoble

birth. But something spoke to the Father in waking and slumber,

saying to doubt this man's motives, but he failed to discern why.

He took time, with the rest of the suitors disposed and bereft. Still

even in speaking directly and testing the Hero again he

could not shake what he feared would occur if he granted his blessing.

But then, Mildiga, Matron of Mystique, she who belongs not

where she prospers arrived as discretely as possible to speak

words in the ear of the Father to guide his hand as he gives his

verdict. Through him she says that the decision is best left

granted to who it affects most, thus an additional trial

was called, not for the Father to judge, but instead for the Girl.

So she requested an ordeal proving his honesty. He must

simply address her to firmly and truthfully give her the reason

that he thinks he is worthy.

"Dearest one, not only of me, but of cities and kingdoms,"

started the Hero's address, "you are your Father's beloved

daughter, manifestation of that which existed before him,

ruler of what comes after, and greatest of all, the epitome,

beyond what most dream of and whisper about to the night sky

when they rise from sleep to the cruel revelation that they dreamt.

I am the one who has travelled for leagues for a chance to address you.

I come not from a proud life, though it has given me much pride,

nor was my life full of great strength, though I have ended it stronger.

Currently, there is a place in my heart where I live a deceased boy,

there is another where what I am seeking will never be my own.

I am those fears. I am also the one who will break them.

Give me your hand, let us unite. I, the protector,

you, the embodied compassion of ages eternally lacking

teaching your knowledge and giving your treasures to all who surround you.

I ask only to aid you in this perfected desire

with my perfect destiny. Speak to yourself and your Father,

look at my language and talk to my triumphs. They will convince you.

If this is done, I already have given my effort by taking

this long journey to your land, now I will give more.

I give you my boots and the thousands of journeys to walk next,

I give you my sword and the fights I will leave as a victor,

I give you my words and the essence of my self,

and ask only for your love."

These words carefully chosen, the Hero concluded and then lied

prostrate, his plea made, and the Girl consulted her feelings.

By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?

This boy, chosen by fate and the world itself had arrived here.

By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?

She called out for a force to respond with an answer to her plea.

By what means could she say no to the offer he gave her?

No words came back. There was no way out of this ending.

So she accepted the offer.