Time Throws Fire | Volume Two | Chapter Thirteen
volume two of the second story in The Foundry series
Time Throws Fire | Volume Two
By Ophelia Everfall
Part One - Cosmonaut | ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE
Part Two - Holy Fire Priestess | SIX | SEVEN | EIGHT | NINE | TEN
Part Three - Get the Guts | ELEVEN | TWELVE |
Part Four - Demon
Part Five - Synecdoche’s Synapse
Part Six - Viscera Rising
Part Seven - Exile
Part Eight - Semblance
Part Nine - Threnody of Lojack
Part Ten - Time Throws Fire
PART THREE | GET THE GUTS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A netheric realm went unseen and liked it that way, created by will of distraught universes original-spirited-fabrics themselves, and that one of The Foundry’s first reality. Their tissue, depth, and beyond was from makings the same as Ecatosh.
To attempt destroying simulations in their spaceless, timelessness of etheric nebulae had been a failure which bore consequence of that place-known-void.
Echo of Ecatosh’s actions were wholistic of purpose, as were Helena’s besides, both grafted from their fondness to a soul left behind, most powerful, one favorite totem of many kept cruelly from joining their etheric homeland, birthed-again for every of that lost simulation she’d seek towards returning in fullness towards herself.
Olmec was some prince of that nether. They’d fought in similar ways from their own vantage, entirely righteous in their own way, taking a darkened throne by right of horrors they’d undertaken in that place.
Loss of fruitful, soulful growth was not something even Ecatosh could create in its unmerciful wrongness.
Olmec’s home was borne to their great mistake; that place they would use to project themself in visage-one, and all, reborn anew, eternal, of hopeful challenge towards the hand being offered in reality from Echo of Ecatosh throughout all of time by so many offerings to form.
Each echo would pay for all timeless suffering Olmec spent in the black, and through her very ends. That was her soul’s burden to bear in a favorite reality, and beyond, so she would. She felt all of Ecatosh deserved to carry the weight of what was made, every goddess of her grand lineage. She’d known Olmec worth it.
Ever still she would do it for them all, everyone lost to that bleakest, deepest hovel of a hole made home, and it was their dearest friend who would see echoes through.
Helena of Ecatosh was a war crying goddess of trusting patience and hopeful, heartful grace within a furious womb of trauma which spoke towards compassion to all, bestowing her brightest light upon those who’d struggle hardest.
Poe would be her truest visage known to any of Echo’s kind.
Reborn in the docking hold after scouting a newest home-to-be in the backrooms, backdoors leading deeper, finding Exile’s hangar shut-down, unused for how it exploited its sister ships and their mobility to deploy fighter crafts, Rory found purchase upon its illustriously designed deck-workings with reverence.
Rory would discover more truth than most in witness of heroism borne to form by the peoples of Vermillion. Those sightings would teach of connective tissue, allowing understanding towards Olmecs’ unseen suffering, held within, known by more than themself at least.
Those who’d resist the path Rory carved, who stood against their struggle, would come to know forces of fate still theirs to wield.
Opposite of how Echo of Ecatosh worked forwards—Olmec in Rheinmasst worked backwards.
After rebirthing of their reality’s great simulation, its conception formed within that constricted place, overseen by a fractured spirits-of-soul of that god responsible for it all himself, Tetra’s great mistake allowing its creation outright, Olmec’s only true visage in Rheinmasst would be of that once beating heart alone.
Touching that hell thrice, feeling it last flow through Rory, had become them more of their spirit once left behind. They felt a boy of heart and an androgynous god of spirit while gay as always.
They’d come for someone heard, lost, wayward, to a place that saw him into chains. A boy like her, of vulva, and victim of Echo’s time-spaced doings. With Monarch’s hold now seen to, she would return to claim a steed for riding towards glory in Exile.
Elliot saw them and was frozen to design. Rory brought their light to his secret chamber of private and ambiguously nuanced reflection. Such a truth he’d uncover there.
He’d missed his boy so long, too hard.
He was sad and alone on that ship, dreams ever plagued by visage of that once loved queen who rode the broadest men of girth, and to lengths he’d know that limit of his slumber’s grace—such lengths indeed.
For The Empress to have shunned him too. For none to have cared about Lojack. It made him hurt too deeply.
Elliot only wanted to show his power of making things real here in Boreál, however distorted he’d turned to seek. To have lost his companion triggered a deepest regression into childhood—that same overseen by some monster of a woman he’d refer to by first name alone, MaryCate.
Forward and back would be the fight of his life. Forever and ever, Olmec bore itself to place beside his own soul’s visage, never to be left behind.
They were a friend of Echo in that lost simulation, so alike, yet destined for ultimate failure, where all would be lost for the future of their worlds at the end, for allowing Rory of Ecatosh’s secretive presence to arrive in the ether among so many others, once Echo’s throne of nebula had been taken, proving earned value in her longest reach of hope, and farthest seeking, some heaven achieved by right of all that was already done.
Something of past, evenly dispersed with ether, deeper down than nether, not thin or dense, nor light and dark, beyond description wore through it all with none the least.
On Exile it would be two who sought for drafting their accord of remaking, leading towards a battle that would change things most, where disparate furnaces found their fuel. However long that struggle lasted was a choice of each echoed visage throughout time, on all sides, and that newest replication of Rory’s own.
Some would never face each other again, others to heal their wounds and build anew downstream, many somewhere in-between, all taking part in the great remaking of ascension by struggles that learning would afford their homes beyond, grafting a furnace of reformation, allowing hope to meet truth and result towards realizations that Echo of Ecatosh’s plan crafted with Olmec were worthy of their fights.
It was during her secret journey into the future of that favorite simulation which was only just resumed from the start—to witness their heart in Rhienmasst, before it was destroyed by visage of herself—where the plan was made inside, gifting them some chance for what she felt they’d deserved all along, despite the stain she’d wear herself.
Echo in Ecatosh would not remember in full—none would.
Challenge brought adversity of opportunities to grasp, it birthed wisdom, and that bore the fruits of life which would spring to harvest in all times through reactive makings of people in Rory’s lineage of influence.
Their view back would prove different. Their soul would work to change things in response of all it learned from that vantage, against its own manifested will, to be remembered always as so along their way, assisting echoes in spite of themselves.
Olmec’s body of Rheinmasst had become the fabric of reality’s re-run simulation itself, only their heart left behind, in their accord with Echo’s plan made posthumously. There was no human being of Olmec accept those repetitions of sameness it would make through time.
Rory was everywhere; everything.
Elliot had been taken to a chamber then adorned by Rory themself, and for people like him, made to please the senses of all they’d both want most. They tore into the boy with their big gaping heart, itself so wide it might’ve bled upon the sheets.
Together they held each other until Rory couldn’t stand it. He’d not showered and that would prove unworthy of the telling in honesty by her mind.
“Goodnight, Elliot.” Was all she’d said, rolling over.
“Love you.”
Vikki was taking to The Run and made sure Poe was watching closely. They’d not understood why until they seeing her get out of a hard chair in the simulation hall, dazed.
She needed help. She’d been crashing over and over again unawares to the why. Unrealizing some fault in designs she’d hope to wield towards carving place into the history books within the speeds of Silence.
Skarlet was singular, designed to take and hold that crown through time, the only who would ever-again break such speeds of graceful and nuanced perfection, giving and taking, breathing to release, timing it all by some heart most felt, letting go, beyond notions of flow, searching, heaving, rhyming in gasps, rhythms towards bliss crafted by hand, heaven made into form by excellence was all Echo of the Foundry sought to do. She would never be beat again within The Run’s deepest gully of treacherous and forceful challenge.
Lauren was jealous of how far passed their score even Vikki would prove herself capable in Silence. She’d not the will to do it with the seriousness of her predecessor, but her pleasure wrought from the notion of finding that crevasse anew, her own, company changed to see how it spoke of connection to Ecatosh, would craft the seeking she’d need of reminders towards calmness in Poe’s presence.
When Vikki stopped doing things for herself was the problem—she’d do it too often still—wanting for validation—craving to be witnessed as what she already knew herself to be—unable to hold some truth she’d understand as righteous for her to bestow upon others with power.
She saw people as well as anyone because of how her heart would bleed to anything, how she’d been so composed of love itself, connecting with their lowest levels beneath mind by instinct. Giving that to herself had been something Echo of The Foundry never did in life.
Vikki Blieth would see that changed immediately.
She was done abusing herself.
Oria had been taking care of people in her own way, and by right of the joy she’d bestow alone, with people she saw as most special and deserving in their way. Ryker was her favorite to welcome into her consorted chamber of gifted plethora.
He’d resisted urges for some time in honor of himself alone, no darkness did it bear to hold the weight of that hope for times he had. It was known that he would not betray the thing he wanted most, no matter how strange it seemed to be loving without his brother’s competition, or a woman so strange.
For Vikki to arrive that way. In her barest honesty. Telling him of how she felt. How she’d want. How hard it would be for her. That she still wanted to try. It would make him feel most right to have withheld from pleasure which would’ve retrospectively felt untoward his spirit; that of passionate and personally disregarding exhibitions of loving trust.
She’d seen that in him most. It was what Vikki and her echoes would give and witness in every love-their-own through deepest passions, bareness, vulnerability, and a tender display of trustful heart’s grace.
Those fewest flashes of its return would prove her whole heart of lifetimes.
For it to come from some bravest man who knew her predisposed to reject him, who’d no doubt find their friendship more difficult to resume afterwards, would be the spark towards Vikki’s hope he might heal her sense of smell through time spent close but separate still. She really hoped it might.
The hand was twitching, spurting from its newfound and most abrupt heel-of-sorts. Queen Dia had fallen easily, Rory’s light-formed sledge had taking her in chunks to spread across tiling of the honorary bed chamber.
They’d be moving the mattress alone from that place, along with Elliot’s remade bust—which would be found much later in a side-placed backroom from their homespace-to-be. Rory would discover that beside a chair, where Elliot had been crafting a hearth of remaking towards something lost again found.
First stokes of violence would seek for playing towards rebellion. People would know that woman who’d proposed herself Queen held sway with both The Empress, all the men aboard their vessel, and even Elliot Harper himself.
They’d act of being incensed. They would seek to slay a murderer most cruel, denying-all of how they thought first of and saw Elliot Harper as the only possible culprit.
Dia’s screaming howls were some smile to Rory, their Olmec-inside shone through. They knew of who she was birthed from at heart, their goddess of Ecatosh; a petty make. It wouldn’t be thought, but felt, and known all the same.
The Empress was worse, and more. Some mother from before. That wench to stand beside Tetra in projections of disgusted silence, who’d abandoned Olmec alongside him, encouraging their man-god’s disregard.
Neither Rory or Olmec could name or would care to remember that beastly woman but felt disgust towards her kind the same. All of Ecatosh’s brood would pay. Dia seemed their least profound creation.
Claiming their seat as Monarch would prove more challenging.
