Chapter 29: Decline
Inside the Grand Cathedral.
Atreides gazed at the surface of the pure white marble, staring at the reflection mirrored upon it; beneath the illumination of the holy light, the smooth floor shimmered with a dazzling, metallic luster.
Reflected there, he saw his own diminutive and pallid figure.
Compared to this sacred sanctuary, he appeared hideous and contemptible.
He knelt upon the cold stone floor, surrounded by utter emptiness.
The Deity favored solitude and had summoned no angels to attend upon Him; thus, no one witnessed his humiliation—perhaps this was the last shred of dignity remaining to one who had once stood as the head of a race.
As if sensing the thoughts lurking deep within his heart, he dared not lift his head to look upon the Deity seated above him.
For the past two hours, the Deity had left him to languish; silence and stifling oppression permeated the entire sanctuary. He endured the aching in his legs while, within his heart, a wordless clamor surged.
Then, from the stillness, he heard the Deity's ethereal voice ring out.
"Atreides, do you acknowledge your error?"
"Yes, my Deity," the Elf King murmured, his gaze fixed upon the floor. Through the prolonged neglect and the agonizing wait, he had gradually been stripped of all emotion—resentment, defiance, fear—leaving nothing behind.
"Yet your heart does not believe so," the Deity observed coldly, looking down upon the Elf King—who showed not the slightest sign of true repentance—and piercing through his feigned candor.
"From Your perspective, all of this was indeed a transgression; I should not have schemed against both the Angel and Demon races." Atreides gave a faint tug at the corners of his mouth, though his expression held little trace of a smile.
"Matters having reached this point, Atreides offers no further defense for himself. You may punish me however You see fit."
A blinding light flared within the Deity's hand. Atreides closed his eyes, calmly awaiting his final end.
He had been born from the Deity's very hand; to vanish beneath that same hand now would, in its own way, constitute a form of perfect closure. So he thought—yet, after a long moment, he felt no crushing force descend upon him.
His eyelashes fluttered; he opened his eyes, only to find that the Deity had already descended from the throne. Enveloped in holy light, the divine form now stood beside a tree at the edge of the sanctuary. "Do you know what this is?" The Deity gently stroked the branches of the World Tree, then turned to address the Elf King: "This is the World Tree. Were it to descend into the mortal realm, it would tower ten thousand fathoms high; it possesses the power to absorb all the spiritual energy in existence."
Atreides was struck with sudden alarm at these words. Yet, before he could fully grasp the Deity's meaning, he saw the Deity point to a nearly withered bud upon the World Tree and continue speaking.
"This bud represents the Elven race." The Deity gave a sweep of a sleeve; within the hallowed sanctuary, the very winds and clouds swirled with portent. Moments of the past—time itself—transformed into a series of vivid, moving tableaux that flashed rapidly before their eyes.
Atreides watched as, at the moment of his own birth, a tender green shoot sprouted from that very branch. He watched it slowly grow as he himself traversed the mountains and rivers of the mortal realm. He watched as—when he finally planted the branch of the Tree of Life within the mortal world—that bud upon the World Tree slowly unfurled its very first leaf...
Those distant memories felt as though they had occurred but yesterday. He fought back the tears welling in his eyes as he stood before the World Tree, listening to the Deity pass judgment upon him.
"I watched with My own eyes as it sprouted, grew leaves, and formed a bud—only to wither away before it ever had the chance to bloom." The Deity gazed down at the Elf King, who was now weeping uncontrollably.
"Do you truly understand the meaning of My words?"
The Deity had never abandoned the Elven race; on the contrary, compared to the Angels or the Demons, He had granted the Elves the greatest measure of freedom. Yet, despite having foreseen it all, the Deity still could not comprehend the source of the Elf King's resentment—a bitterness that had ultimately led him to commit such a grave error.
"War begets sin. Beyond the Angels and Demons, countless innocent creatures in the mortal realm have been swept up in this turmoil; innumerable lives have been reduced to naught."
Having spoken these words, the Deity stepped out of the Grand Sanctuary, all under the watchful gaze of Atreides.
The world did not crumble or totter as a result.
For there could be nothing worse than a world already utterly consumed by sin.
The Three Realms were now saturated with Original Sin, a corruption that had completely shattered the world's protective wards. Far from being able to prevent the Deity from leaving the Grand Sanctuary, the world itself seemed to be pleading with Him to depart as quickly as possible. Yet, as the very bonds that had restrained Him for so long vanished in such an absurd and anticlimactic manner, the Deity felt no sense of triumph or joy. To see the world he had guarded with such devotion reduced to this state—it would not have been an excessive punishment to banish Atrleidis to the most desolate wasteland in the mortal realm. Yet, the elf still had the audacity to feel aggrieved.
"Under your leadership, the elven race is on the brink of plunging into the abyss," he criticized the self-styled clever elf without mercy.
Atrleidis gazed at the Creator God standing just outside the palace gates, watching him from afar; a faint sense of sorrow welled up within his heart.
"Father God, rumors circulate throughout the Three Realms that you favor the angels and loathe the demons. Yet, even the demons—I envy them."
The God looked at Atrleidis as if observing a creature born of a different world, unable to quite comprehend the workings of his mind. Atrleidis, however, offered a hollow smile.
"Even if it is loathing, at least you still hold them in your thoughts."
...The God felt that the Elven King was flawed from head to toe; yet, seeing that the other truly believed this from the bottom of his heart, he found himself speechless. Unable to discern the God's emotions through the shroud of holy light, the Elven King—as if having abandoned all hope—laid bare his innermost feelings to the God without any restraint.
"You gave them countless companions." The God felt this claim was preposterous, but Atrleidis spoke first: "You need not rush to refute me. Whether it be the angels or the demons, you granted them countless companions. Only the elves..."
"You were never willing to intervene much on our behalf. Back then, you simply handed me a single branch and sent me forth on an unfamiliar journey—to wander this vast, boundless world in search of a place suitable for the growth of the Elven Tree."
"Three hundred and sixty-five sunrises and sunsets I endured, traversing the yellow sands of the great deserts alone, crossing the vast oceans amidst raging storms. The biting wind was my first companion; the bitter rain walked alongside me."
"I have never once known the comfort of your companionship," Atrleidis murmured softly. As he listened to the elf's dispassionate recounting, the God's anger gradually subsided. He sensed that something was amiss, just as the Elven King rose unsteadily from the ground and, swaying precariously, began to walk toward him. "My God, Atlaides willingly accepts his punishment; he asks only to pose one question before his departure."
"Had I known this day would come—had time itself been capable of turning back..."
Dragging his two numb legs behind him, he stumbled clumsily and collapsed before the deity, yet when he lifted his head, his face bore a smile of pure, unadulterated innocence.
"Would You have granted the Elven race a second chance?"
Would You... have stayed with me a little longer?
Probably not, I suppose.
As if knowing this was his final opportunity to behold the deity, the Elven King fixed his emerald gaze upon that awe-inspiring radiance—that holy light—staring unblinkingly, even as a searing pain began to bloom within his eyes.
The blinding glare before him finally dissipated; for a moment, he feared he had lost his sight entirely from having stared directly into the holy light for so long.
Until, at last, he saw a face.
"It is You," he murmured, gazing upon a countenance that bore a resemblance to Yahweh's, yet was utterly cold—a face possessing a beauty unlike anything found in the mortal realm.
"Yahweh... it was You."
"It was You who bestowed upon Allen the divine brush—the power to paint mountains and rivers into existence."
"It was You who provided the Dwarves with precious materials, teaching them the craft of forging divine weapons and impenetrable armor."
"Lucifer was right," Atlaides admitted; he had once witnessed the tender, reluctant farewell shared between Yahweh and the Dwarves. His own prejudice against the deity had ruined everything.
He choked back a sob: "Allen... he was the second chance You granted the Elven race, wasn't he?"
"Yet, in my ignorance, I misunderstood it all. It was *I* who led them down the path to ruin."
It was *he* who had prevented the Elven race from ever bringing forth their magnificent blossoms upon the World Tree; gazing now upon the single, withered bud clinging to the Tree, his heart was filled with profound remorse.
As the karmic burden of his hatred and resentment finally lifted, the Elven King left standing in its wake resembled nothing so much as a rusted, decaying blade—his features etched with the ravages of time, betraying every sign of advanced age.
The deity, however, still remembered the Atlaides of old—the one who had just come into being. In those days, he had been a figure of vibrant heroism, the very embodiment of a wise and noble leader.
He was the brave and sagacious Elven King—the one who was meant to have guided his people toward a future of boundless prosperity. He was kind by nature, yet it was this very kindness—which rendered him prone to melancholy—that ultimately led him astray.
"I have already felt the tenderness you hold for the elven race," he said, offering a smile devoid of regret as he solemnly performed a deep genuflection before God.
"From this day forth, Atrides shall no longer play the harp for You."
From within the Great Cathedral, God issued a divine decree: the Elven King was punished—exiled to the desolate wilderness of the mortal realm, forever banished from the world of men, never again to appear in this existence.
And thus, the elven race fell into decline.
As Atrides emerged from the Great Cathedral, the Seraphim—who had been standing guard outside—watched him approach with barely concealed tension.
He paid no heed to the fact that the Seraphim had their hands upon their swords; instead, he simply cast a deep, lingering glance at Lucifer.
Yahweh was God—but did Lucifer truly know?
The Flower of the Angels had already blossomed in full—dazzlingly brilliant, a magnificent spectacle of unparalleled glory—yet Atrides had not failed to notice the solitary new bud sprouting upon a branch of the World Tree.
It was being nurtured with meticulous care by God; perhaps, one day, it would bloom anew to take the place of the elven race.
"Your Highness, what was the meaning behind that look Atrides gave you?"
Having watched Atrides depart into the distance, Michael whispered the question to the Chief Seraph, who seemed lost in thought. The golden-haired Seraph snapped back to reality, his mind finally breaking free from the Elven King's enigmatic gaze; he pursed his lips.
"First, let us go and see Our God."
In the year 1680 of the Genesis Era, God formally appointed Lucifer—within the Great Cathedral—as the Vice-Regent of the Heavenly Kingdom, granting him supreme command over the three armies of Heaven. Michael was appointed as the Deputy to the Chief Seraph, tasked with assisting Lucifer in the administration of Heaven and the Seventh Heaven.
Beneath the authority of the Chief Seraph, the realm was divided into various administrative districts, each entrusted to the stewardship of high-ranking angels.
The Chief Seraph proclaimed the dawn of a new epoch—the Era of Holy Light—and in the first year of this new era, a grand ceremony was held within the Seventh Heaven to formally announce these new administrative arrangements.
Metatron was entrusted with the governance of the Angelic Academy, charged with the sacred duty of instructing all the new angels who emerged from the Pool of Reincarnation. Samael is the chief judge of the prison on the fifth day, overseeing the guilty angels. His deputy, Urijin, is the second-in-command of the Thrones and assists Samael in this administration.
Beelzebub is the chief angel of the fourth day, the Sun Goddess, overseeing the two main archangels. Raphael is the second-in-command of the Archangels and assists Beelzebub in this administration.
Beria is the chief angel of the third day, the Venus Goddess, overseeing the Virtues.
Gabriel remains the chief archangel, overseeing the Principal Archangels of the Moon and Mercury Goddesses, as well as the eight ranks of archangels and all angels without rank.
Raziel is promoted to the second rank of Cherubim, winged by Lucifer himself. The Virtues Lilith is elevated to Throne, serving under Samael.
Asmodeus is stripped of his position as second-in-command of the Virtues, and Raziel takes over, assisting Beria in administration.
He is fair in rewarding and punishing, and his judgment is measured, earning him the great love and respect of God.
The light of the Morning Star shines throughout Heaven, gradually becoming another form of faith in Heaven over the long years.
You provided the author, Twilight, with a tale of the arduous journey of creating a world within the framework of Hebrew mythology.