The Pilgrimage

One of the greatest joys of an infinite universe is balance, the interaction between equals and opposites. A vibrant flower grows, singular, in the vast expanse of a desert. Lush and bountiful rainforests are teeming with creatures, desperate to end your life as to continue theirs. A mother endures agony, to bring her greatest joy into a broken and jagged world. Balance. There are those that believe this balance has an order, a structure, and a purpose. Life and death, joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure; these things make up the building blocks of a universe constructed around give and take, all leading to an end of perfect balance. In order for things to be balanced, they must first be connected, and if all things will balance then all things are connected. If all things are connected, then all things are one, all things are Xi. “The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi”. This is what a the woman cants under her breath, trudging slowly, steadfastly towards the horizon. “The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi”. Over and over and over again, a mantra to distract from the pain in her legs, her back, her feet. Her food ran out two days ago, and her water skin was nearly two-thirds dry. They say the pilgrimage is the truest test of faith, it will require you to leave everything behind. They say no one has ever reached the Tower with a scrap of food, or a drop of water remaining. Most choose to abandon their test and return to their lives of possession, some choose to continue until the pilgrimage has claimed their mortal lives. Some come to the pilgrimage and go insane in the heat and sterility of Parcel-3, and then some, not many, but some reach the Tower, and are greeted by the Sect of Xi.

She scans the horizon for sign or structure, her hand drifting against her round stomach the way one asleep might stroke the arm of their lover; unconscious comfort. The recesses of her mind drifting back to Farengir. She thought about the radiance and joy of his smile, of how that smile could brighten her sorrow, and re-kindle her faith. She thought about his hands, calloused and coarse from his years in the mines, scraping out just enough to keep them fed and sheltered. She thought about the countless years spent trying to bring life into a cold and calloused world, years of failure and loss. She thought of the joy of conception and the blessing of life growing inside her. She thought of the collapse, and the day her world fell to pieces. She resigns herself to continuing her trek on faith alone when a gust of wind blows, strong and hard, turning her head slightly to the right. She smiles at how, so often, The Path is made clear the moment you decided to let The Way guide you. “The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, the Way, The Will, Xi” her mantra continued, steady, slow, breathy.  These would be the last words she ever spoke.

The haze of flickering consciousness is as close to time travel that humanity has ever achieved. She sees her feet, trudging, through the unceasing sand. She sees her sand-blasted, wind-blown hair dancing in front of her eyes, her neck bent against the headlong wind. The next instant she is crawling, grasping for armfuls of sand at a time, pulling herself through the desert. “The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi.” Over and over and over again, her only metric for the passing of time. Blackness. Eons pass, or seconds. She can see the bright, orange, cloud of the sun behind her closed eyes, and suddenly the cloud is gone. Finally passing on, she breathes her last breath. Blinding pain rocks her back to life and she realizes her child has decided to come to the world. Her eyes shoot open to see that the darkness was not caused by death, but the shadow of a man, standing over her, blocking out the sun. Ancient as the sands of this wasteland, or young as the child now willing its way into the world, his face was still, expressionless. He stooped to help her and, despite her pain, could not help but notice that he moved with blinding, inhuman speed.

Frozen in pain, fear, and exhaustion, all she can do is stare this stranger in his eyes and wait for him to strike. Yet his crouch becomes a cradle, and he holds her head in his arms, and nods. He says nothing but his nod is enough to assure her, he is no demon, he is the end of The Path, for her at least. Even now, in the throws of labor, dehydration, and complete and utter exhaustion, her mantra continues; “The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi. The Path, The Way, The Will, Xi”. She rails against his chest, writhing in agony, sometimes growling those 7 words, sometimes screaming them at the top of her lungs, and all the while he smiles down at her, clutching her hand, and nodding his head in reassurance. He never says a word but she is comforted nonetheless. And then it is over, the cycle of agony and release ceases. A smile splits her sand caked, tear stained face, and she joins The Will to the soundtrack of her son, screaming life into his lungs for the first time. Balance in all things, the end of one path is the beginning of another, death in the void of the desert brought a life to the Sect of Xi, and The Will continued on in its glorious balancing act as it always does.

A vibrant flower grows, singular, in the vast expanse of the desert.