The Seeker

Burden Personified - the value of objective reality in a world increasingly remiss of it.

The Seeker



Act I



The Seeker presses forward,
a fiery torch held high.
Dust and ash plume with each step--
sparse specks briefly illuminated,
dazzled by the Flame.



The Dark is all-encompassing--
outside of the Seeker,
and the Flame.



Withered remains of fallen structures,
standing in silence--
memories rekindled,
fleetingly,
by the passing light.



His wandering through ruin--
often interrupted.
Skittering shapes--twisted, ash-born.
Red eyes shimmer dimly--
at the torchlight's edge.



They move toward the light,
never within its bounds.
A low moan trails them,
like wind through broken teeth,
yearning--
not recoiling.



When the beacon turns,
they scatter--
like cockroaches,
shrieking,
fleeing,
cursing.



One shadow--
tall,
ragged,
bearded.



It does not approach.
It does not withdraw.
It follows--
at the edge of the light,
unwilling,
or unable,
to take one step further.



The Seeker presses on--
the tall shadow follows.



Flurries of ash,
like snow caught in a gust,
wash over the Seeker.
But the Flame is warm--
it does not go out.



The torch in his hand grows,
burning--
warmer,
brighter.



He moves past homes,
their windows shattered.
Not from any impact--
but as if they gave up remembering
what they once reflected.



Always, in the distance,
voices murmur.
But they never speak.



Still, the Seeker presses on--
and the tall shadow follows.



An upturned cart,
long past its useful years.
Resting in the square of a town--
its purpose, long forgotten.



A small figure huddles beneath,
cowering in its lack of shadow--
a young girl,
alone,
abandoned.



This town has no warmth left--
There is no Flame here.
Her rags no match for the elements.
She shivers against the cold.



The Seeker approaches.
She doesn't run.



He kneels,
the Flame held near.
She reaches for it--
tentatively,
then confidently.



Through shaking sobs,
she whispers:



"I forgot what warmth was."



He places a hand on her shoulder,
she cries.



His motivation--never clearer.
His conviction--never stronger.



She leans into him--
not for protection,
but because she remembers
what it feels like
to be near something kind.



The shadow steps forward--
crossing of the barrier light.



A tall,
gaunt,
skeletal old man--
eyes hollow as the ruins,
stands at its edge.



"I thought I dreamed up the light--"
he rasps, voice like gravel underfoot.
"--something to keep moving forward."



The girl looks toward the Flame.
She asks:



"Will it always burn like this?"



There is no time to answer.



Behind them, the shadows stir.
Ahead, the Dark thins--
one step at a time.



The Seeker,
the girl,
and the man press on.



Act II



A structure looms ahead--
untouched by fire.
Stable.
Shelter?



The room is strangely intact--
walls solid,
dust undisturbed.



A fractured mirror hangs alone--
across the far wall.
Set in an ornate frame--
beautiful,
improper,
alien.



A man stands before it--
stilted,
rigid,
wretched.



His image shimmers in pieces--
timid,
tortured,
triumphant.



Each pane a world of reflection--
some that were,
some that are,
some that have yet to be.



The Seeker approaches--
the Flame lights the glass.
For a moment--
the fragments converge.



The man recoils--
not in fear,
but in defiance.



"I don't want it," he shrieks.
"Your light shows too much."



The girl clutches the Seeker's cloak,
half-hidden behind him.



"He's like the shadows," she whispers.
"Afraid of the light."



The old man narrows his eyes.



The Seeker does not speak.
He raises the Flame slightly.



For a moment, the reflection corrects--
the fractured panes forming a single image.
The vision is unpleasant.
Daunting. Dangerous.



The man lashes out--
not at the Seeker,
but at the Flame.



"Keep your fire, pilgrim.
I am at peace with the Dark."



The girl shrinks behind the Seeker.
The old man steps forward,
his voice steady.



"Peace with blindness is not peace at all.
You're not brave--
you're just afraid to look."



The Flame grows warmer in the Seeker's hand--
its glow fed not by anger,
but by clarity.



The man cowers from the light, shouting:



"You only carry that fire
so you don't have to see yourself in the Dark."



The Seeker replies, calm:



"The Dark only hides what you already know."



Still,
the girl stays close.
The old man stands a little straighter.



Together,
they press on--
the coward's wailing fractured behind them.



Act III



A city shrouded in shadow.
One street cuts through hollow homes--
long deserted.
At its end, an opulent palace.
Not fallen--
because it refuses to acknowledge the fall.



The party presses on.



White walls, cracked but polished--
rise like waves around the structure.
At the center lies a gate--
open,
beckoning.



From the entrance, music floats--
a thick fog of inviting decadence.



The courtyard is a marble garden--
fountains flowing with nothing but time.



The people laugh too loudly--
their smiles too wide.



At the heart stands a woman--
delicate, regal.



She greets the Seeker with open arms.
He hesitates.
Rebukes.
But her words are soft,
and the silence behind him--
long.
He relents.



"You must be tired.
You are not the first to come--
bearing a light.
Come. Rest.
Set the flame down.
Be seen, for once."



Each word a thread, weaving effortlessly--
the dress glimmering with silver and silk.



She stares through him--
eyes like a night sky,
voids save for scattered stars.



The Flame flickered, pleading--
Its shrinking warmth curling weakly
around his fingers.



Her court is composed of the Unseeing--
those with wealth,
beauty,
and emptiness.



Some lean too close to the columns--
where skin meets stone.
Fingers curl against marble--
as if reaching through it, or from it.



One smiles--unmoving,
his laughter echos--
long after his mouth goes still.



They praise the Seeker.
They Adore him.
But never ask what the Flame means.



She tells him:



"We've found a balance here--
shadow and light, coexisting.
Your fire still burns.
But some wounds needn't be healed."



The old man steps forward--
a hand on his shoulder,
his voice urgent:



"I'd forgotten so much until I saw it.
Comfort lies--
when it says the work is done."



The woman is intimate,
calm,
endlessly reasonable.



Her palace is full of others--
smiling,
laughing--
but vacant behind the eyes.



The young girl, still behind the Seeker,
peeks out and whispers,



"They're not laughing.
They're just making the sound."



The woman places a hand on his arm,
the one bearing the torch.



She moves closer.
But she does not grow brighter.



She whispers,
softly,
seductively:



"You've suffered long enough.
Let your light rest--
and let us see you."



The Seeker pauses,
the Flame wavers, tilting away--
it's orange hue shrinking.



"What would I be if I set it down?"



She smiles.



"Happy."



The Seeker stays.






Act IV



Time passes strangely--
the city is unchanged,
the court still laughs,
the fountains still pour nothing.



The girl,
the old man?
Gone--
not dead,
not vanished.
Just... not there.



A scarf--once the girl's--
folded neatly on the edge of a stone bench.
He doesn't remember her leaving it.
But it feels deliberate:
tidy,
thoughtful,
Protective.



She did not look back.
The old man walked beside her,
his hand resting gently on her shoulder--
not leading, but steadying,
as if remembering the way.



No footprints.
No farewell.



They left together.



The Flame still flickers--
but it is no longer warm.
It does not resist him.
It does not guide him.
He holds it out of habit,
not of hope.



He debates the Woman. Often.
Not as a challenge--
but like a student.
And always, she wins--
gently.
Beautifully.
With reason like silk.



"The world was broken before you arrived," she says.
"You carry a candle through a hurricane. Let it go."



Sometimes he agrees.
Sometimes he doesn't.
No longer sure which is worse.
It no longer seems to matter.



The courtiers no longer sing his praises.
They smile, still--
but absently.
He's become a song they've heard too many times.



Looking around the court,
there seem fewer of the Lost now--
but no one has left.



More statues.
More ornaments.
More silence.



Hands once clasped in applause
now curl silently from marble columns.
Faces linger in the molding--
frozen smiles,
eyes shut.



The palace grew--
not outward,
but inward.
New alcoves where faces once watched.
New columns where voices once spoke.



A Lost face, nearly engulfed in the structure whispers



"Isn't it enough to be part of something beautiful?"



The Seeker tries to speak.
No one listens.



His name--
once a chorus,
then a murmur--
now an afterthought.



One day, he decides.
Not to argue.
To show her.



He brings the Flame closer--
to her face.
Closer than ever before.



She leans in--
smiles--
and breathes it out.



"There--
Now you are like us."



For a moment,
he is frozen.
Then--
panic.



Her smile grows--
too wide,
too many teeth.
Wicked. Joyless.



"You are just like the others--
Your quest is failed."



He cups his hands around the smoke,
but there is nothing to save.
Nothing but ash.



Then--



A flicker.
A breath of warmth.
One ember,
no larger than a heartbeat.



He clutches it
like a wound--
stumbling back.



Laughter follows--
echoing, distorted,
chasing him into the dunes.



The Seeker runs.






ACT V



The world is flat now.
Bare. Silent.



He walks for days.
Then years.
Maybe longer.



He walks until the dunes erase his footprints--
until his shadow grows thin.



He is alone now--
the others pressed on.
Forgetting even the faces of those he saved--
perhaps forgetting was the price of staying.



Treading dunes of ash--
skeletal trees,
starlight above,
unmoving.



The wasteland is empty--
no wind,
no birds,
just footsteps and breath.



He forgets the word for hunger--
for direction. For names.
But not purpose.
Never purpose.



He still has purpose--
the only thing that drives him.



The ember never goes out--he wills it.
He cups it. Feeds it. Sings to it.
He warms his hands, but dares not ask it for guidance.
Would it still answer?
Did it ever?



Finally--one night, in the stillness--
a figure appears.
A shape on the horizon--
Not quite shadow,
not yet promise.



A young woman, wrapped in a traveler's cloak--
intricately stitched with leaves.



Proof that something still grows.



She does not speak at first.



Then:



"You came to me once. When I was small.
I didn't understand then--you gave me warmth.
Now I know how to carry it."



Her voice is not the girl's.
But it remembers her.



She kneels.
He offers the ember.
She takes it--
her hands no longer small.



It grows in her hands.
It catches like breath on kindling. Quiet. Certain.
It becomes The Flame again.



As she walks away, the Flame grows within her--
light gathers at her shoulders--
a golden halo blooming with each step,
scattering the shadows in its wake.
The Lost move closer to it, drawn to its hope.



The Seeker presses on.



The man looks down.
His hands are empty.



He smiles.