Time Throws Fire | Volume Two | Chapter Six
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
Part Three - Get Guts
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 TWO | HOLY FIRE PRIESTESS
CHAPTER SIX
Dispossession gripped the Consolers.
Each one felt lost to something missed which had been right before them.
Echo Béleaph’s life was too short, all at The Foundry knew it so, and her closest friends would more than most. They’d been planning a ceremony. They thought the crowd might be small considering that way she’d passed in such speed of furious flame.
Standing room was absorbed throughout the concert hall in what seemed only moments after Ryker opened doors. Poe’s eyes were welling at the sight of a massing audience as she’d turned back from the curtain’s edge. Leopold wasn’t looking anyone in eyes backstage and that felt unknowably strange for a man so predisposed to connecting with others. He’d been handling things the worst.
Poe hadn’t been well. There was nothing about the situation which meant anything but pain until transformation of her own heart. She’d realized some meaning in it all. She saw the way letting Echo down had been of accomplices all, to themselves and each other, for consequence of how things were, but also how it trashed her own heart’s peace the most and she’d allowed that to go unwitnessed wholistically.
Their time shared together had been most precious of all.
Leopold saw the fire blooming in Poe Halroth’s eyes in moments after, unlike the rest of The Foundry which found itself in shock. Something within her was fuming, smoldering, roiling, heating ever hotter, furnaces of rightness sparked into infernos of becoming.
Guilt was for others. Poe spent too much time with her friend before their end, over course of Echo’s second length at The Foundry, only to miss the point in one of her greatest lessons so consciously regurgitated.
“I don’t forgive myself. I remember.”
Echo told it often.
There was truth in those words through action they’d bring to form of others but not herself. Poe knew something more despite the way she’d shared their intended purpose of showing a better way. Echo should have forgiven herself too, but they were bravest to not.
Behind the curtain Poe only wished she’d taught that back before Echo had gone, realized it her own harvest of knowledge.
Poe withheld insight needed for Echo stowed on some level, thinking the woman lost to guidance for her forceful nature, unknowing each statement heard would be absorbed and turned over until she’d find a greater truth-her-own, and more in tune with theirs, on her own accord.
Echo was a teacher who sought people to return the favor. Those who managed the feat would forever be loved through all of time by Echo of Ecatosh, backwards and forwards. Especially as it became more demanding to bestow upon her loneliest visage, some diverse matching of bravest and unseen burdens bore within every human.
Someone visited Poe in the night. They’d been dreaming. To see Echo’s face from her bed was everything needed to change the mode of thought regarding how she’d react to their death. It birthed a plan.
Ceremonies were hers to make. No one else would speak from the opening event of a two-part celebration of life she had planned for The Foundry under title of honoring a fallen angel.
There’d been a night Poe wouldn’t forget spent beside her; with Echo of The Foundry in wholeness of spirits two.
Between them was a difference of firsts. Echo acted truthfully in their presence, for once, but more than ever, as always. They’d fallen with love that night despite how mad Echo was and would prove to be in times to come. Something beyond their friendship sparked in a way made undeniably clear by both.
Poe finally saw the sweet heart buried within, the princess Echo was.
Echo finally honored that fiercest protecter of rightness she’d always seen stowed within the girl so prone to hold it inside, Poe, a woman always in how she honored her heart and mind alike of balances-impossible for that weight on all she’d feel too brightly.
Never seeing Echo again after that night would be the stain she’d remember. Failing to be honest about thoughts and feelings when Echo seemed so excited to reconnect after their most special time proved a dreadful weight. She’d made the same mistake as all.
She thought Echo Béleaph couldn’t handle what reflection had shown, that she’d prefer for not crossing lines of love, how what they’d been was even more special and needed to her heart, feeling time was needed for cooling down.
Known in retrospective blessing on intuition trusted wholly, a happening many would find themselves strangely capable of and predisposed to in wake of Echo’s death, was fact that angel would’ve been more than fine with Poe’s will, she’d have been at peace to know—she’d have held it better.
Projection back towards Echo for the way she loved so strongly and with little regard to practicality would be her downfall. That woman never wanted the safe thing but would take any hit to hold onto a dearest. Echo wanted something perfect, she’d wanted everyone she loved.
Echo’s final private message to Poe would make her words to share, that last transmission sent before removing Poe’s ability to respond, for knowing the monotony duly coming in return. It hadn’t been angry at all, only sad. Echo was beyond incapable of fighting with Poe and the same in return, it felt perfect in that way, they understood each other too well by heart.
That’s why something romantic wouldn’t work for Poe.
Understanding Echo was a blessing and a curse. She’d known the love for Rory Tyrell inside had become something untoward, dysfunction so wrought within, Echo’s need to show them who she unending, unhealthy. It seemed to prove the way they’d felt a farce of sparkling brightness, until it didn’t, until Echo was gone.
She’d always needed someone to be brave and push through. She was too honest.
Echo expected others to be like her, courageous to the bone, speaking their truth and honoring what feelings would lead them towards in response. She wanted people teaching her back, yet only those who saw the person she’d truly been had proven able to be able.
Poe would surmise that one cannot honestly help from false foundations, not really, that the work of resetting a base was the assignment of every person alone out of deference to each other’s struggle.
Still, something in Echo’s final plea. The way she’d gone and all she said through their time had brought it home to mind, bestowed wisdom of nuance found her own by reflection and grown by the seeds Echo’s words did plant. There was more to it.
People had a responsibility to each other, everyone they met, especially those they cared for by heart, most with whom they’d shared in receiving love, and beyond for those who felt of Ecatosh beside. Humanity within the system of Boreál was letting themselves down and thinking it right. They’d taken accountability of self too far. Independence was a notion corrupted.
It wasn’t just Echo who needed people to be truthful for her wellbeing that found failure in the ways of others so deeply rooted within perception. That was everyone’s burden.
Poe wouldn’t read from the message received. She’d simply recount it by heart to that fullest auditorium and the entirety of her peoples watching back for eras to come.
Those videos would be studied and known to elicit change in hearts of all who watched, and it was the look on Poe’s face throughout. Her body was still, and the mood had been dour—angry. Poe was mad at herself and there hadn’t been one person who couldn’t see it, nor expected that, or ever witnessed something remotely similar from her before. She’d taken accountability of guilt for what every soul at The Foundry felt her farthest from responsible to holding the weight of. She owned it all. Poe started without context given, as she rarely would.
“I love you Poe. I always will. Our time was special—and you know where to find me.
There was some pause for silence—tears.
“If and when you have friendship to offer again—I will always be here.”
She’d only cried afterwords by spurts held back to tell of the meaning through reaction. Everyone followed suit, as would many again in repetition until they felt the lesson learned. Poe would become a living teacher echoes made to be, she would do it despite herself, she’d chosen to atone that way in deference for a one she’d always love most.
Finally, it broke; a smile formed, its grace untold, the alchemy within profound. How it transformed the spirit for every witness was of greatest gratitude to all.
Poe’s grin grew large—silly—when she’d laughed still crying—people were feeling better and worse at the same time, different.
“Alright let’s do it.” She’d forced through.
Zabroth was king.
Thunderous cries of cheer and boo about—tornados of twisted parts and human pieces—blood splattered with people ran through—fearful shame turned glory was rediscovered for every member of The Foundry taking part and beyond.
Lindy Copper was belting a brain melting high note to her own and every true competitor’s equal dismay. Zarbroth had not a brain.
Within breadth of the ring was simulated-flesh, each made by their own designs.
Forty participants created visages to control and wield chosen power of brute force, physical brutality made bizarre, some ritual of origin beyond all imagination from Earth that Echo shared with them all.
They’d understood it now, finally, most of them, and not because of their most recently lost companion. It was her predecessor, to hold title of honored teaching, brought to remembrance always forward in that regard and more. Jocé Remance was an angel too.
Every person involved worked together. Limitations placed upon performers in The Rumble forced a needed creation of balance and demanded people within work simultaneously together and alone when taking on Zabroth. They were fighting, trapped inside some realm of false reality in remote semblance to battles performed on Earth.
Each choice made while constrained in-game meant to graft some chance for their standing against their Demon King—who’d been coded uniquely and with singular constitutions of power, for Poe alone to wield, long ago.
The Demon King was nigh unstoppable unless she’d let people take him—which she often did or failed to do in pre-agreement for the fun of performing that role—seeking to show out her ability for outshining peers at joyful exultation of release—sating some unknowable violence needed by bodies in face of all that was horrific about themselves, forced in their universe by exultation.
She was going full out after picking critters from the crowd and filling Zabroth’s satchel with their gore. The Rumble was as much hers as anyone else’s.
Carlito Jones would prove some victor in time. He was small but fierce—crooked eyes, stilted gait, perceived as less—a golem of a man. Inside was Chloe. She’d found it most pleasing to be the least predictable combatant.
Nobody knew what others had been preparing besides their organizing of the powers they’d wield against a mighty foe; those positions of teamwork they’d aim to take as spokes in a wheel aimed towards Zabroth’s earnest defeat at last.
The feat had been previously believed impossible.
To be standing beside others, sisters, and brothers alike whilst mooring self in discordance of understanding each other—created bliss amongst Foundry ranks beyond those present. The reason was obscure. Its making known.
It was Echo. She was everywhere.
Echo Béleaph had become The Foundry itself.
She’d remain forever the hope of what it sought to make in the universe. Those seeds her death planted would change things, and most significantly at last. Every stowed creation of will into the universe was released with divine remaking in tow. Each intention cast would land the way heart meant most. She’d done very well.
Many would fall to blunder. Hyde would rise. His brother would not.
They’d become distracted of cause. Something within the two who’d never taken to such superfluous seeming competition found themselves incensed for not gripping the opportunity previous—atoning in their own way together—woman to woman.
When the newly minted and bespangled sisters glimpsed one another, of such like make, they’d known each other clearly. Things developed quickly from there.
Iris was a god of men. Her chosen form would be some giant—a squatter.
She’d rediscovered her spirit of soul at longest last, after time of trauma on Sin left too long unresolved. Having become of such darkness, then collapsed to a ghost, seeing Echo resolve herself in those final moments would speak of Iris’s purpose found.
Her finishing move was called The Plop.
Ass-a-lot took Hyde’s simulative version of lost love with that signature maneuver after he’d removed his brother’s Priscilla from match by default. They’d not be unsticking themself from his Goo Spit—a unique move Ryker had not the wit to bring capabilities of matching in full.
Beaten to pulp they’d been—all comers were falling before the challenge of Zabroth. Until another joined.
Their entrance music blared through The Rumble’s arena which led for even Zabroth to stop ripping heads apart from torsos and stuffing them back inside before hurling the bodies at random.
Efficiency was Poe’s game when playing to win, along with some artifice of spirit.
That challenger’s tune made people angry. No one would dare. Thots were not to drop. It had been unspoken but understood by all that Elektra, that signature and holey whore would be retired by right of honor. None felt it needed to be said.
Zabroth simply quit.
Joy had been disrupted, and all would follow to seek the invader, some horrified projection of the anger they’d wish to sling in response, denial laced within their immediate contempt laid to plainness as what it was—sadness for how they knew themselves about to act in shame because their feelings were hurt—betraying of Echo’s true spirit ever still.
They were letting evil ruin their fun.
Deep in the bowels of those lowest levels of Foundry habitation was a woman. She’d unstrapped from her hard chair, originally made for seeking alone. There wasn’t much movement after she placed hands upon her heart.
Semblance only sat there.
Changing were tides of energy within. Something was breaking most completely, consequences brewing too dreadful to let her mind understand. That chamber where Rory discovered a home-to-be had been created at her behest. Such time spent with the working class hardened Semblance’s spirit. She’d found resolve to work for them all.
Now, here, she is broken.
That would be known to all who saw her. She’d choose to remove that privilege. Never were her channels to honesty fully closed and the ways in which that reflected dishonesty of everyone was some challenge she’d not a will to make, not anymore.
Since Echo had gone she’d become their shrouded absence manifest to visage of contempt. She was an echo of an echo—lost by herself long ago—that woman to be had been Semblance all along. It had been her to tame Auluré. She’d wielded the whip. It was she who changed The Foundry.
Elektra was her creation, and The Rumble too—like everything and everyone she’d believe towards making some reality within times to come—if she couldn’t have it nobody else would either.
