Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
by Superhim
A Zento Fanfic of Sorts

Tying the fraying golden rope about the day’s final bundle of red durum wheat, Tyrael wiped the sweat from his brow as he watched the sun sink beneath the mountains, orange hues dying and fading to obscene purples and, soon, darkness.  Overhead, the Swainson’s Thrushes were returning to their breeding grounds in northern Altama, the white of their underbellies speckled with red from their violent throat markings.  Calming waves of Spring spread across the lands, frosts thawing, animals emerging from hiding, ready to foster new generations.

That should do it, Tyreal thought to himself, drawing deep breaths as he sat in the field, recovering from the day’s labor.  Lengthy grasses and seedlings embraced his burlap trousers, which were belted with a similar cord to the ones adorning the bundles of wheat.  A cool breeze, the low, silent kind that accompanies nightfall, brushed his lengthy brown hair across his smooth, angular face.

“Brother, come inside; It’ll be dark soon.  With all of the animals, wolves will be sure to be about.”

Tyrael recognized the high-pitched voice of his younger brother, Jheryn.  His amber eyes glowed in the sunlight as he peeked out from the doorway of their mutual home..  Tyrael laughed to himself; Jheryn had always been the cautious one.  Ever since Tyrael had found him exposed on the mountainside, he shared an especially close bond with his adopted brother, taking on the role of both sibling and parent.

[And rounding the sloped curve of the mountain pass, his smooth walking stick keeping time by crunching in the loose gravel, he spied a baby, no more than two months old, atop a pile of tiny bones. A makeshift graveyard for unwanted children, he sighed inwardly. As he approached, he saw that the child was chewing on one of the bones, its ribs extruding visibly due to starvation.  Unlike the twisted remains, this child had none of the deformities that plagued the skeletons scattered across the rocky ground.  He saw in the child’s eyes a golden glow, like a cat’s in the moonlight.  Its face begged Tyrael to end its suffering, quivering with hunger and cold…]

“Brother, is there something on your mind?”

Jerked out of his reverie, Tyrael slowly rose to his feet and approached the dark mahogany cabin, Jheryn slipping out to hold the door open for him.

The floor of the cabin was made from packed dirt, covered by a mat of woven reeds to keep the insects from infesting their home.  The chairs and table were simple, the seats cross-sections of ancient trees, the many rings seeming to spiral down into infinity.  A fire pit was dug in the center, encircled by stones from the river bottom.  The makeshift cradle Tyrael had built for Jheryn still stood in the corner.  Tyrael fell onto his hay-stuffed mattress, his arms still burning.

“We’ve had a good harvest this Spring, brother,” Jheryn smiled at him, sitting on the floor beside the mattress.

Tyrael smirked, reaching up to tousle his brother’s hair.  “Yes, the Nature God, Yuri, has blessed us in our time of need.”

“After the droughts last year, the animals will be really happy, don’t you think?”

Shrugging, Tyrael sighed.  “I didn’t know they had feelings.  But, I guess you’re right.”

“How long until we ride into Ay’thern to sell our excess?  I haven’t left the house before, and I think I’m finally ready.”

That is because, brother, were they to know what you are, you would be crucified.  Tyrael lowered his head, knowing that he could not lie to his brother for much longer; Jheryn would soon be of age and able to inherit the property.  Realizing that Jheryn might see his distress, Tyrael feigned laughter.

“Don’t get too excited just yet, Jheryn.  We barely have enough to keep ourselves alive as is.  I’ll have to harvest the two remaining fields in order to have enough to sell in town,” Tyrael sighed, dismayed that what he spoke was not a lie.  Turning to the window, he stared at the clouds on the horizon.  “I can only pray that Yuri sees fit to provide us with enough rain to keep the crops alive until I can bring them in.”

Standing beside him, Jheryn looked up into the sky, and Tyrael couldn’t help but notice the way the failing sunlight glanced off of his iridescent amber eyes.  “Don’t worry, brother,” he said quietly, “It looks like rain.”

* * *

Receiving High God Ichiro’s insistent summons to the parlor in the east wing only moments ago, Lord Yuri wiped the sleep from his eyes as he stared at the moon through the two-story crystalline windows along the palace hallways.  Judging by it’s position in the sky, it must be nearly midnight, maybe two minutes until.  The farmers in Northern Altama wanted rain.  He would see to it that they received it; after all, they were peaceful people that kept to themselves for the most part.  He had no reason to give them anything but prosperity and peace.  Peace, he thought to himself, is a precious commodity these days.  In fact, even the peace in this - the city of the Gods - was only held by the power of Lord Ichiro, and the threat of it’s use.

Yuri contemplated the motives behind his being summoned here.  Katashi, the God of War, had an unexpectedly pleasant and whimsical demeanor and would often wake Yuri to show him the latest revolt or conflict between the human nations, pointing into the depths of his seeing pool and giggling like a child as hundreds of men died below.  Perhaps the stress of ordering the deaths of millions had taken it’s toll on Katashi, perhaps he was born without a sense of morality.  Regardless, the God of War seemed to have become partially insane in recent years.  However, so long as his behavior did not affect any other Gods, he would be allowed to continue uninhibited.

[ “Heeheehee,” giggled the God of War.  “Come and see this, Yuri.  This man here, the one standing on top of the hill, cowering behind the bodies of his comrades.  I whisper to him and suddenly he believes himself invincible, charging the enemy lines as he is torn apart by their arrows and spears.  Hundreds slaughter one another, and for what?  For a hill, something none of them have any interest in until I tell them it’s important.  In fact, I tell them it’s crucial.  Makes you think if anybody has the freedom to choose.  Even us.”

“What are you talking about?” Yuri’s eyes widened, simultaneously curious and confused.  “Certainly we are in control of our own destinies… as are they, save for our minor interferences.  Whatever we wish to do, we do as we decree.”

“Sure, if it’s done just how Ichiro says.  The decrees he sets are few, but strictly enforced.  Freedom with their exceptions.”

Yuri shifted his weight back and forth between his feet.  “That kind of talk borders on treason.  You must be careful.”

“As must you,” Katashi replied, his face rippled with the deep trenches of mirth lines, giving a wink.

Taken aback, Yuri stammered, “What do you mean?”

Either not noticing or not caring about Yuri’s response – at times he found it difficult to understand exactly how the God of War’s mind worked – Katashi grinned.  “Do you know in Far’han, where the civil wars are being fought, they have a certain saying: life’s a bitch, then you die.  I’m rather fond of it.”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“However, they got it wrong.  Life’s a joke, and death is the punchline.  All you can ever really hope for is that when the curtain falls on your act, it brings down the house.  Let me tell you a little story.  Down there, maybe several weeks ago, a soldier was unfortunate enough to step on some explosives.  It took from him his sight, his speech, hearing, his arms, and his legs.  I don’t even know why they bothered keeping him alive in the physicians’ tents.  All he was able to do was tap his head on the post with that delightful two note code they’ve invented.  ‘Kill me,’ over and over again.  Truly marvelous.”

Yuri wiped his hand across his face, annoyed by Katashi’s bemusement at the plagues of humanity.  “I’m going to go to sleep now.  Have fun with your war games.”

“You’ll understand in time, my friend.  In time, we all do.”]

Lord Ichiro, on the other hand, did not share Katashi’s whimsical disposition and morbid sense of humor.  There were always ulterior motives behind his actions, dark crimson eyes plotting deeds only he understood.  Could he possibly know? The thought sent chills up Yuri’s spine.  Although Ichiro kept her a prisoner, he was quite protective of his wife, the Lady Kimra.

Kimra…  Ever since the day he had met her - beautiful, yet off in some world of her own creation - Yuri had felt emotions he had sworn to abandon.  A fair and just God put the good of the people he watched over above his own interests.  Yet no matter how many times he told himself this, how many times he forced himself to remember that thousands were counting upon his wisdom and grace, he was unable to suppress this feeling that grew within him whenever he saw her, although every time she was accompanied by Lord Ichiro.  For many months, he would smile to her and wave, overjoyed when she so much as glanced in his direction, his smile dying and turning to a somber nod when Lord Ichiro turned to see what she was staring at.

Eventually Yuri dared to hope that she felt for him the same way as he.  There was a burning in his heart when he selfishly thought of her in his dreams, his sleep fitful, tossing and turning.  Turning left as he approached the central foyer, heading for the east wing like a condemned man down the green mile, Yuri wondered if Lord Ichiro had been able to read dreams, or if he had seen them when they were finally together, after a year of guessing, dreaming, and hoping; a year of silent greetings, longing glances, and whispered affections.

Were it only that Lord Ichiro had found Kimra in Yuri’s dreams, then he might survive.  After all, there was always the doubt that came with dreams, for their connection to reality was slim at best.  Yuri had once heard that Lord Ichiro had thrown a man off a balcony for giving her a foot massage without his explicit consent.  He was a large fellow, one of the scribes around here, fell two stories and crashed through a greenhouse.

But this was likely a rumor; many were flying about these days.

Reaching the top of the long flight of ornate marble steps, Yuri found himself face to face with Lord Ichiro, crimson eyes smoldering and teeth clenched tightly.

“My Lord,” Yuri began, “I thought I was to meet you in-”

Lord Ichiro cut him off, gripping him tightly by the wrist and leading him the opposite direction of the parlor, toward Lady Kimra’s chambers.  So he does know.  Yuri had hoped that were he to die for his actions, Kimra wouldn’t have to see his lifeless body.  He had never meant to hurt her, but now he supposed it was inevitable.

The door to Lady Kimra’s room was crafted of finest mahogany, intricate markings spanning across it’s breadth like the mhendi symbols wrapped around Kimra’s body.  Ichiro grasped the silver door handle, turning it slowly so as to make no noise.  Yuri gulped, ready to face his punishment, when unexpectedly Lord Ichiro pushed him up against the wall, just out of sight of anyone inside the room.

“You stay here and wait,” he growled.  “I must have a little chat with my wife first.”

Yuri nodded silently, his sparkling emerald eyes, closing.  Ichiro burst through the door, which slammed against the inner wall violently and shuddered back, latching with a soft click.  There was a crash of something delicate being shattered.  There was the deep, vicious booming of Ichiro’s shouting – the heavy door made it difficult to make out the words – the wet, heavy smack of blows raining down, and Kimra’s anguished cries, and Yuri could practically see her heavenly face streaked with tears.

Exploding out of the room as suddenly as he had entered, Ichiro gripped Yuri about the neck and flung him into the room haphazardly.  Yuri landed roughly on the floor of clouds, which he was grateful for Kimra insisting upon.  Were it marble like many of the other rooms, the impact might well have broken his jaw.  He regained his feet swiftly, dazed but otherwise unharmed.

Yuri’s gaze swiftly turned to Kimra, the woman he loved.  Her face, which had shown such independence and strength only hours before was now wrought with fear and anger, and in the moonlight Yuri saw that she was so delicate, like a porcelain doll.

“My Lord, what is the meaning of this?” Yuri cried, although he now knew exactly what Lord Ichiro had planned.  Yuri knew that his death was mere moments away, and not only that, but the High God intended to force Kimra to watch the life fade from his eyes.

Saying nothing, Ichiro grabbed Yuri’s head and smashed it into the desk where Kimra would write her memoirs, sending papers flying in all directions.  Yuri felt his forehead split.  As he staggered to his feet, blood obscured his vision, dying Ichiro’s obsidian hair and pale skin all a violent crimson.  His love’s secrets, her thoughts, hopes, and dreams, fluttered to the floor lifelessly, now stained with his blood.

Not giving the God of Nature a chance to recover, Ichiro’s hand shot forward, gripping Yuri by the neck and lifting him into the air with a bestial roar.  Yuri felt his throat being crushed under the High God’s powerful hands.  Yuri coughed, gasping for air.

“You dared to defile my sanctum! My wife!” Ichiro roared, flecks of saliva flying off with each enraged syllable.  His mouth twisted into an evil grin, crimson eyes narrowing into dark slits.

A wife you keep a prisoner, Yuri thought, but was unable to say.

“Do you know what the punishment for such treachery is?!”  Ichiro tightened his grip, bursting vessels in Yuri’s neck.  In response, Yuri gagged, coughing blood onto the High God’s robes as his windpipe was slowly crushed.  The stains sank in deeply, and Yuri couldn’t help himself but think that they would never be wiped clean.

Ichiro’s eyes widened maddeningly, struggling to hold back vicious laughter, “Death.”

Black spots danced across Yuri’s vision as his brain was starved of oxygen.  His legs thrashed uncontrollably, nervous system sending frenzied messages as it failed.  The farmers wanted rain, did they?  They would get their rain.  And you, my lord, will come to realize that even a god cannot rule solely through fear.

“I tire of your pain, Yuri.  Just die.”  Ichiro raised his other hand to Yuri’s neck, crushing his throat and breaking his neck.  There was a brief moment of excruciating pain, then all the God of Nature felt was the rush of calm and soothing blackness.

* * *

Jheryn looked out the window at the clouds despondently.  “Brother,” he said, “I can’t help but feel that something terrible just happened.”

The statement made Tyrael feel uneasy.  Jheryn sensed things from time to time, though with increasing frequency in the past few months, and never had he been wrong.  What could have happened on a peaceful day such as this one? he wondered.

Tyrael didn’t have to wait long.  For two weeks, it rained from daybreak to nightfall.  After the first day, the soil became oversaturated, and the crops soon were washed away.  Unable to hunt for food, Tyrael knew they would exhaust their food supply and have nothing to sell in town.  The lord they rented their land from would go unpaid, and they might soon find themselves without a home.

How could the God of Nature betray them so?  What had they done to deserve this?

“Jheryn…” Tyrael turned to his younger brother.

Jheryn looked up, golden eyes asking questions, but his lips only quivered.

“Unless the weather changes, we won’t be able to stay here much longer,” Tyrael continued quietly.  “The flood waters from the twin rivers will rise, the ground will be swept out from under the house and it will fall.”

Jheryn shed a tear, his mouth wavering as he tried to force words out.

“Don’t talk, Jheryn, just listen to me.  I’m going away, probably for a long time.  I’m going to find the city where the Gods dwell and demand an answer for this mistreatment.”

“Brother, let me come with you!”

“No, Jheryn.  I’ll probably have to pass through many cities.  Were anyone to see your golden eyes, our journey would be over at once.  I want you to stay here.  If the water rises too high, don’t bother trying to save the house.  I want you to free the animals and to seek higher ground to the north, on the slopes of Mount Sinai.  I shall return for you.”

Jheryn stopped crying, his golden eyes widening as he stared up at the face of his brother.  “I shall miss you brother, ab imo pectore.”

“Don’t say that Jheryn, especially when anyone else is around.  The Gods themselves have forbidden the use of the Old Speech.”  He paused, momentarily lost in thought.  “Few remember the meaning of the words in these days; perhaps even the Gods have forgotten.”

Tyrael turned to leave, silently praying to whatever God may still be on their side for the safety of his younger brother.  The door clattered shut behind him, failing to latch and shuddering open slowly, as though a mysterious force were begging him to return inside.  Tyrael carried on without notice, his dark leather boots slopping through the mud.

* * *

The summer was brutal; humidity added to the heat made the air feel heavy as Tyrael moved through it on his journey to the peak of Mt. Sinai, the mountain whose peak rose above the clouds, and – it was rumored – the one place where man could reach the city of the Gods.

The summer soon gave way to Autumn, and by this time he had reached the foothills of the great mountain.  The townsfolk he encountered on his journey were very kind to him.  He supposed that times of crisis could bring out the best in people.  Still, there were somber whispers back and forth, furtive glances and speech in hushed tones.  An innkeeper told him confidentially that all of his guests in the past two weeks had been afflicted with horrible weather crises; perhaps this was a worldwide phenomenon.

“God o’ Nature up there, Yuri it is.  Gone mad, I reckon,” said a man in a dimly-lit booth at the corner of the tavern.  That was nearly a month ago.  Has Yuri truly gone mad? Tyrael wondered to himself.  And if he has, what must be done?

Tyrael neared the peak, the muscles in his arms throbbing as he pulled himself up onto a stone outcropping.  He lay panting on the edge of the precipice, too tired to see whether he had reached his destination.  His breath scattered dust and small rocks from him, some clattering down the face of the mountain quietly, echoing in the still, heavy air.  Everywhere around this mountain, Tyrael could hear the faint sounds of thunder, but surprisingly the air was clear, free even of clouds around the zenith.

Pushing himself up, clumsily rising to his knees and then to his feet, Tyrael inspected his surroundings.  The plateau was bare on both sides, nothing but brown rock.  Then, looking up, Tyrael saw ahead of him a perfectly white, pristine marble staircase that seemed to shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow and none all at once.  It seemed to stretch up for nearly a mile, leading to a city that seemed to float on the clouds themselves, shimmering so brightly that he couldn’t make out any details.

Tyrael took a sip from his canteen, wiping the excess that spilled out over his dry, cracked lips with the back of his coat sleeve before placing his foot on the first step and beginning the long ascent.  It felt wrong for him to be treading on this holy ground, but he pressed forward despite the pleas from somewhere deep within him to turn around.  Looking down, Tyrael noticed that his dusty boots left no mark on the pristine surface of the floors.

The climb was not as long as he had feared; something in the air as he approached the divine city gave him new strength.  As he neared the end, he saw before him an intricately detailed archway that led into a city square.  A pair of statues with halberds crossed barred his path; there was enough room for him to crawl underneath, but he had no doubt that the halberds would sweep down and cleave him in two if he dared try.  Mortals weren’t allowed in the city of the Gods.
“Speak the words and enter.” A voice emanated from the statues, though they remained still.

“Let me in.  I need to speak with Yuri!” Tyrael did his best to keep his voice steady.

“You do not know the words.  You shall not pass.”

“I know it’s not normal, but neither are conditions below; you must let me pass!  Stand aside so that I may see Lord Yuri!”

“We move,” the voice said, taking on a darker tone, “for no mortal man.”

Tyrael dashed forward, trying to push the statues out of the way, but to no avail.  Devastated, he fell to his knees.  “Yuri!” he shouted.  “Come out here and face me!  Have you no honor?”

There was no response other than the whistle of wind and the distant rumble of thunder.

“Have the gods no thoughts of those whom they govern?!!  I demand an audience with Lord Yuri!”

And suddenly Tyrael felt a presence behind him, the fear in his stomach rising.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said a voice from behind him.  Standing immediately and whirling about to face the stranger – how had he followed him up here? – he found himself inches away from a young man with jet black hair and crimson eyes.  But there was something deeper behind the eyes that suggested incalculable age, housing memories and visions from when the world was not yet formed.

“H-High God Ichiro.”

“Yuri is dead.”

The news shook Tyrael, his knees buckled and he had to steady himself to avoid tumbling down the mountain.  “What?  How?”  He had prepared himself for the possibility of madness, but the death of a God was something he could not understand.  Were they not immortal, standing beyond time, their hands guiding humanity with alternating benevolence and cold logic?  “T-that makes no sense!”

“Foolish human…” the High God Ichiro crooned, bemused.  “Do you really think that you can apply your primitive notions of ‘sense’ to the actions of the Gods?  How brazen of you!” he shouted, his wry smile contorting into a mask of fury.

“The lands are being destroyed!  Without Yuri, the weather is behaving uncontrollably and the people are suffering and dying.  The crops are dying, and without them, no one will survive the next Winters.  You must bring Yuri back!”

“Must, human?  I must do nothing.  My action and word is law, and those who disobey are guilty of treason and blasphemy.  I owe nothing to those weaklings that inhabit my world; although Yuri seemed intent on coddling you like a mother, allowing even the weak to survive and disrupting the natural progression of life.  Choose your next words carefully, for I am not pleased thus far.”

“Without a people to rule, there is no place for a king, whether human or God,” Tyrael muttered solemnly, then stuttering, “Without us, you Gods are useless!  Your power means nothing without a reason for it’s use!”

“Fool!  At first I found you amusing, but my ears tire of your repeated heresies.  Leave now.  Remain and you die.”

“You would not be so cruel if there were a higher power watching you.  Surely the other Gods will tire of your injustices.”

Ichiro fumed quietly, an earth-shaking growl seeming to come from him and everywhere at once, his brow so furrowed that even his piercing crimson eyes were barely visible.  As his lips pulled back from his gritted teeth, the growl rose to a deafening roar.  “I AM THE GODS!  I AM ALL THAT THERE IS!”

Rushing forward so quickly that it seemed to Tyrael as though he had teleported, Ichiro grabbed him by the neckline of his tunic, lifting him off his feet with one arm.  Then his eyes softened some, the look of incalculable rage dissipating into one of wolfish cunning as he set Tyrael back on his feet.  “You think that by angering me your death will be swift and painless, is that right?”

His false smile disappeared.  “Unfortunately I am in no such mood to grant favors.  The very thought that you could deceive me, a God, merits a slow, merciless demise.  By remaining, you have made your choice clear.”

Saying no more, Ichiro lifted Tyrael by his collar and descended the magnificent staircase to the rocky mountain peak.  He threw the mortal to the ground, and Tyrael felt two of his ribs crack from the impact.  Rolling over to look up at the High God, his chest burst into flames of agony.  Tyrael could feel his broken ribs floating about in his chest cavity.  Oh Gods, he panicked, what if it’s poking my lung every time I move?

Tyrael lay still, calming himself.  He wouldn’t be able to run away now.  Although he had never intended to, it was now an impossibility.

Ichiro had effectively immobilized him.

Strutting around behind his fallen prey, Ichiro pressed his hand to the ground.  Tyrael felt the earth shudder, realizing swiftly that he was rising as the ground around him formed a rectangular dais.  Ichiro, head bowed, approached solemnly.  Each hand gripped an ivory dagger, which he had seemingly drawn out of nothingness.  Tyrael gasped sharply as his arms were drawn from his sides to be perpendicular to his body.  Ichiro stabbed the daggers into his wrists with inhuman speed and accuracy, pinning him to the stone.  Tyrael felt bones in his wrists chip and muscles tear, but he refused to give the High God the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Tyrael felt the dais rise, slowly being raised to vertical.  His wrists burned in agony as he was supported solely by the daggers, looking down the rocky slopes of the mountain, the edge less than a yard away.  “After you die, your corpse will remain here as a reminder to others not to follow your heretic example,” he heard Ichiro’s voice from behind him.  “Any man who visits shall gaze upon the rotting face of their savior and know what happens to those that betray the will of the Gods.

“However,” he grinned, “there is a chance for you to partially redeem yourself.  The way you are now will take hours for you to die.  However, it can be over in an instant.  Death will come easy; just close your eyes and beg.  Beg me to end your suffering.”

Tyrael coughed and spat blood on the ground, remaining silent.  The sun began to fall as evening approached; and all that time he did not beg.  Not even when his face ran pale from the blood loss.  Not even when his heartbeat slowed to a crawl and stopped.  He never begged, and he never screamed.

* * *

Jheryn collapsed on the dirt floor of the cabin.  He touched his hand to his face and stared at his fingers when they came back wet.  He closed his eyes and let out a scream, for he knew that his brother was dead.

[”Brother,” he looked up at Tyrael questioningly, his brother a silhouette against the winter sun.

“Yes?”

“We watch over the animals so they do not hurt themselves, and you watch over me.  Who is it that watches over all of us?”

“The Gods up high on Mount Sinai watch over all things in this world.  Over the trees and grasses, the weather, the sun and stars, and even over you and me.  Their invisible hands guide our fates like a weaver guides thread along a loom.”

“But brother, who watches-”] he began, but the memory faded to white.  He was back on the dirt floor of the cabin.  Gathering himself up and wiping the tears and dirt from his face, he turned to the door.  The town of Ay’thern was less than a day’s walk, and for the first time in his life, he saw clearly the destiny that lay ahead of him.  Filled with grim purpose, he took the first step out of the door.

* * *

His room was dark, as it had been for many years; in fact, he preferred it this way.  The events he observed on the world were more easily understood when surrounded by darkness.  Katashi could not help but smile at how easily humans abandoned the rules they themselves had created.  Their cries of “love thy neighbor” and “to forgive is divine” vanished as soon as they thought they had been wronged.  And Ichiro’s slaughter of Yuri had only heightened the tensions.  Landscapes were flooding and villages were in danger of being washed away by the unstoppable rain.  It would take a long time to find a new God of Nature, and even then, many years until his power was great enough to undo Yuri’s final spell.  It was a fitting last act of defiance for an old friend, he mused.  In many ways, the countries below were overripe, discontentment, paranoia, and rebellious emotions ready to burst forth at any moment.  And within them, a new seed would take root.  The stage was set for massive change, perhaps a worldwide war or a people’s revolution.  He would have to keep an eye out for the catalyst, he grinned.

Then, looking through his glass, he happened across something that made him shiver for the first time in centuries.  It was a young boy, no more than ten or twelve.  He was standing on a table in a tavern in the market district of Ay’thern.  What caught the eye of the God of War was the boy’s golden eyes, something which he had not seen since the self-destruction of the Daedalus Empire.  He had thought that the last of those people had died out, their civilization and technology having advanced beyond their control and collapsed upon itself.  The boy was preaching to the gathered crowd, his speech occasionally slipping into the Old Tongue.   “No more can the Gods rule over us with fear and tyranny!” he shouted.  “A ruler who only rules for himself does not deserve the power that he has been granted; and power means nothing without a reason for its use!”  As he watched the crowd grow and swell in size, cheering and shouting their approval as their fervor grew, Katashi could not help but laugh.  “This,” he said, “will be a show I wouldn’t miss for the world.”
END


“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
“Who will be there to watch the watchers?”
-Juneval