To my dear, errant uncle,
Your response saddens me, although I, of course, will continue down my path regardless of your obstinacy. I understand that the quality of a soul dictates, in some degree, the creativity of the power that may be drawn from it. But I must remain sceptical of the old ways, even as I know we of the new path are handed defeat after defeat, and have even our brethren turn against us. My response is simply one question: how old are you? I know, of course. Nineteen thousand four hundred thirty six, two months and four days.
I am loathe to say this, but the sheer amount of strain existence must have placed on your head has made it, well… I don’t want to be uncharitable, but I cannot help but think things aren’t quite working in your mind. But do not be ashamed. When and if I have endured so grand a time as you have, I expect my own judgment will be impaired as well. It is not your fault, but rather a cruelty of the Word. Oh, that creature of infinite pains.
I know the feeling you get from sinners of a particularly lecherous lifestyle, of saints who turned at the last moment to sinners. There is a qualitative difference to it, but not a difference that will mean the unmaking of the world. If it meant that, then there’s been the past eight thousand years for such a reality to bear its fruit. You tried and you tried and you tried. The scream lasted for over ten thousand years, and you still hold it as sacred. What burdens did the scream keep you from? What pain did the old ways save me from? As always, I must suggest we look at this empirically. Sure, there is always the possibility that Lord Ahriman will find a conniving way to harness the particular spice of a free soul to finally separate us from existence. Sure. But again, that possibility has existed for far longer than my own existence. And what has happened? There’s no need for either of us to answer.
You pointed out in your last letter that there are plentiful worlds for the bright eyes to tie us to, plenty of sapient monsters in out there in the material void whom we might be forced to retrod our path on, again and again, if we follow the logical path of unmaking this planet here. But I think you are fundamentally misunderstanding our adversary. Have you ever considered, that, just perhaps, the Word does not care? That with the accumulation of enough raw power we might be able to eliminate the Abyss, Kokytos, and the hatcheries in one majestic blow? That we might not have to touch the material world at all? That such a simple act might be our pathway to freedom? That and only that?
I might be wrong, of course. Thousands of years of history is arguing against me. If the bright tormentor did not care about us, why then would he send legions of angels to fight against us? Why would they execute our possessors with such malicious precision?
Maybe, uncle, maybe it’s because we don’t matter. Not because we are the enemy of the Word, no, but because we are a nuisance. An enemy they would need. A nuisance? Not really. Look at how easily they laid waste to our operations. Granted, we lacked leadership here on the surface, but each glowing, feathered freak cost us eight of our kind, easily. Even the most experienced possessors will find their skills hard pressed by the most slovenly guardian.
Maybe the Word is enough of an enemy for itself. How many images of God have the humans erected for themselves? How many ideologies do they follow with fervent frenzy? How many wars will they rage as they cross the stars? How many genocides are being carried out on planets where we have intelligence, let alone influence?
We come back to the Abyss when we perish because the hatcheries capture us. And, if not them, as we have seen in experimentation, then the very shadows in the caves below. But, eliminate all the matter with one basic stroke… and maybe it’s over. And if not, then we return to your path. We start anew, labor a thousand thousand years. I despise the possibility, but then everything about our existence is despicable. We have a hope here, a system of such sheer, basic power, that we might actually… it might not be long. The suffering of the free, uncle, is curved. Unused, it slips away, evaporating alongside the victim’s screams. The suffering of the mental slave, however, is flat. It falls straight on the floor for even the most novice of seekers to see. It’s exceptionally easy to collect and store. So never call me ignorant again. I have seen how fast the stockpile has grown in the past few years. It was something I strove for, something I helped in concealing from the treacherous Satan. I am not giving myself too much credit; the crowned fool didn’t care enough to bother noticing. But it’s there. I shall not give you the exact location, for I fear you will remain unconvinced of the virtue of logic and attempt to sabotage the stockpile with your insurgent friends. But it is there, a ticking time bomb as potent, nay, more potent than sheer antimatter.
So, uncle. I understand that no matter what I’ve said, you will not assist us. But I beg of you, give us time. Despite our weakened manpower up above, we will be able to hold out. The angels will not come for us again; they are lazy and only carry out their traditional purges at the turn of decades. The imps will protest, sure, but we will bring enough branding irons to their behinds that they’ll get back to stamping papers. It’s not the perfect situation, no, but we will make do. And mark my words, without the meddling of your traditionalist factions, we will succeed. It might be a small chance, but it’s a chance, and I’m so, so very tired.
And, just as a note, you know that if we meet on the field, above or below, I will break your shell eighteen times over before you can lay one claw on me. Tainted by the sun though I am, I am used to a physical form. Moving it about is as natural for me as it is for the humans. Your possession addled reflexes will simply be no match. But then, of course, it is up to you as to whether we should get to such hostilities. They’re still not inevitable.
May the fields above come to know shadows and fire,
Your persistent nephew, Corporal Moloch Alastair.