Marcus and Henquist

Constructed from the White Book, found in the ruins of Lightford Tower in 3,066.

The White Book was journal and diary known to be written by Marcus Acristle, the infamous Muil, who had taken on the moniker The Almighty after the Wurtheim Event. The White Book was in poor condition when it was found, and so these passages have been carefully reconstructed by historians of the period.

Lightford Tower, on the eve of Sheleswhite, Cowdren, 2,506

There are almost none left now, who know. For that I am grateful. The death of science has made way for religion. Dogma and magic are the hegemony through which I now rule. It is much harder to argue against, even if progress is slow.

Do I miss the conveniences of science? Sometimes. This dark hell is interminable. I would be free from it by now if science still prevailed. Do I miss my old life? Not at all.

For the record, I was born in the conventional way at the very peak of the last civilisation. There is not much to remember about that life, save that it was rich in excess. Gluttony and avarice ate my soul. I fed myself until my stomach hurt, whilst children around me starved. I bought up the resources of the world, then discarded them on a great heaving pile, unused, until they choked the land of life. My entropic existence, and that of my fellow man, poisoned the earth and the very air I breathed, until we struggled to survive in the Tartarean hell we had created. Ah, the good old days!

Wurtheim was our answer, though the result was entirely unexpected. He thought he could fix the land and the sky. Give us limitless energy and no consequences. He thought it was going to save millions. Instead, he killed billions in an instant with his over-ambitious experiment. It makes me chuckle, even after all this time. The hubris of man never fails to disappoint.

So here we are, in this blackened and cracked world, where multiple realities collide in regular and spectacular fashion, to upend the cosmic foundations of physics and biology. Killing ninety-nine percent of humanity was an efficient way to deal with the problem, if I do say so myself. And in this topsy-turvy world where science can no longer be relied upon, a creature like me gains an evolutionary advantage.

I am not like other men. My needs have always been different. But my difference now sets me apart in rather fascinating ways. When I look at the vast span of humanity, the beggar in the gutter, the king in his tower, I feel nothing but contempt. They are no longer my fellow men. Grubbing, mewling, conniving, thieving, liars and cheaters all, ready to sacrifice anyone and anything. But not themselves. Never themselves. They are wretches and I am their better. This new reality simply crystalises this truth.

What is left of humanity is now pathetic. They know nothing of honour and sacrifice. It is a myth built on sand. Once upon a time there was a man who made a sacrifice. But he is long gone and they don't remember him anymore.

Time and circumstance will wash away everything. One’s morals most of all. It takes the smallest of effort from me to sway the masses away from the path of enlightenment into a much dark realm, more suitable to our new hell.

In this place of darkness, morals carefully built are simply grist to the mill. Any inhibitions painfully constructed, just leaves in the wind. I watch them flutter away with disinterest. Back at the start, the survivors tried to build a new Jerusalem, but nothing so holy could survive in this dark pit. I learned long ago that only the powerful survive. The weak suffer what they must.

So now my plans are made and I roll them out with precision. I watch as a few choice words here dismantles all their hubris, a few sadistic actions there crushes all their courage. The sands wash away their conceits, leaving unformed lumps of clay that are their souls. And as clay I mould them, shape them as any God would. They do my will. There is nothing else left. I am not like other men. In this world, I am a God.

But I am not omnipotent, much to my own chagrin. I have my limitations and they remind me of my humanity, more’s the pity.