Prologue

Prologue1

Amongst a light that reflected through his pale skin, turning into a translucent glow, a man sat with his legs folded.  His hands were pressed lightly together at the palms, his delicate fingers pointing upward.  A numb white glow penetrated through closed eyelids and his irises were partially visible, staring straight out into nothingness.2

The room was no room - only light.  He sat on it, lived in it, breathed it deep into his mind and lungs.  There was nothing but him, and the light.  He was part of the light, at moments seeming only to reflect it, other moments it originated from him, and yet others he was one with it, and all moments collided as if time did not exist, the faces of moments blinking through eternity.3

From behind a relaxed, yet closed mouth, a low humming, a muttering of a single unintelligible syllable emanated.  The intonation came from him and thickened in the light, spreading out in all directions as a partner with the brightness.4

His face of an indeterminable age - wise, yet not old; free, yet not young - radiated an infinite spectrum of emotion, rapture to rage.  His pure white hair radiated white fire.5

His thoughts flew upon wings of shadow, unseen and unknown.  Though he held the power to press his thoughts out onto others, he did not do so, for his mental power was too much for any other being lesser than him.  Insanity ruled in the wake of his mind - empty shells, babbling prophets and poets.  Even alone in the dark, he held himself in check habitually.  He viewed and acted in lives as if revolving them about his fingers, weaving threads of life and death with the adeptness born of experience.6

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the humming stopped, and the light dimmed, yet never completely ceased, for the lives and power with which he played, had no end.7

Replacing clouds of undirected light, a small room hewn from marble slowly became visible.  The light dimmed and dissipated into nothing but a memory, and the man opened his eyes.  His skin was no longer translucent, simply pale, but his eyes glowed softly with a pure white light.  The irises behind the glow seemed faceted, each segment a separate color blending into the rest, shifting and moving from color to color, representing all, but resting upon none.  His hair, now jet black fell down in soft ringlets upon his shoulders, unbound, unrestrained.8

He wore loose black pants of an ancient Arabic style, and an un-tucked, long-sleeved white shirt embroidered at the edges and cuffs strange spiraling madness in black thread.  He wore nothing on his feet.9

Standing gracefully, he took a deep breath, reveling in the sweetness.  Focusing then his eyes upon a wall of marble, a door melted into existence.  Pushing upon it, it swung slowly open.  He stepped out into corridor lit dimly by a light which seemed to emanated from behind all walls ceiling and floor.  He walked slowly, feeling each movement, each contraction of every muscle in his lithe body.  Down the corridor of silver marble, he walked for many minutes, his clothes licked by a soft wind, his eyes lazily blinking and a small smile curving the edges of his lips.  He looked ready, his mind and body centered and focused upon one thing, one destination.10

Pausing, the man turned to right, and melted out of the marble, another doorway appeared, and he pushed upon it and entered.  Inside, rosewood bookshelves ending at what would be the man's own ability to reach, stretched out into a maze of knowledge.  The books, at once seemingly never disturbed, were also completely pristine - not a smudge of dust or cobweb touched them nor the shelves.  The air was crisp, slightly cooler than the corridor had been.11

Walking with purpose as if the entire library was mapped inside his mind, he turned here and there, coming upon a desk, and a single volume of black leather resting upon it.  He took to the chair and centered the book before him.12

Waving a hand slowly over the cover, silvery letters appeared, spelling "The Essence of Blasphemy," and he smiled and nodded to himself.13

Taking a goblet which convoluted out of the desk before his awaiting hand, he drank a sip of the dark red liquid with his eyes closed.  He swished the contents in his mouth, savoring the taste before swallowing it.  His mouth returned to the natural small smile as he set the goblet down and again eyed the volume.14

Opening the cover, he turned a few blank pages.  Steadying a head in the air above the open page, he gently moved his fingers, and upon the page the first line appeared in smooth black lettering - "A Dark Resurrection."15

Taking a breath, the man again moved his hand above the page, and more words appeared, as if written by an invisible pen.16