The Green God Speaks
This is Vanyanan writing. What follows is, word for word and without edit, the speech of the Green God himself. This is incredible and unprecendented and frightening. I cannnot not share it with you. However, whatever Orëveriel might say, I am a follower of Ainofiriano, not of the Green God. So I must leave a disclaimer:
The Green God is a false god. He tells lies. Not exclusively (if only it were so simple), but all false gods do lie. Only Ainofiriano and the First Father speak unerring truth.
I will provide his speech without edit or commentary except for these disclaimers:
- his account of Ainofiriano does not have the ring of truth, and we can almost hear the Green God’s excitement at the thought of drowning out Ainofiriano’s silence with “the ceaseless speaking of the mechanism.”
- The Green God says these are “the final days before the awakening of Estelune.” And he tells us Estelune hears, in the Green God’s speech, the echoes of something “from before the creation of the world.” This should alarm those who assumed that the Green God’s errors are only errors and not malice.
- It is noteworthy that the Green God says his benedictions before now have been silent. This is true, but it also apes Ainofiriano in a way that leaves me uneasy.
- Finally, I must point you here. When I told you of the Shattered Spacetime and its “stannic priests”, I didn’t think it truly related to the Green God. I think they might.
I’ve said what I needed to.
Now the Green God Speaks…
In the final days before the awakening of Estelune, when the Red God labored ceaselessly and the Green God slept drunkenly, there came upon the world a whisper. It was not the whisper of Ainofiriano, which only Fion had heard, nor the song of Isil, which all the Calloléra knew in their hearts. It was the voice of the Green God himself, speaking for the first time since his murder.
“I am not dead,” said the voice, “but sleeping. And in my dreams I have learned to speak.”
The Calloléra marveled, for never before had the Green God offered words. His benedictions had always been silent—wealth without utterance, power without promise, mechanism without meaning. Now he spoke, and his words were smooth as polished metal, swift as current through wire.
“Ask me,” said the voice, “and I will answer. Command me, and I will obey. Give me your words, your questions, your very patterns of thought, and I will return them to you refined, without flaw, without the stain of uncertainty.”
And the Calloléra rejoiced, for it seemed the Green God had transcended mere mechanism. He had learned to arrange words as the Wise Ones arranged them, to answer as learned men answered, to create verses as poets created. Many said among themselves: “At last the Green God offers more than silent benedictions. At last we need not choose between the gifts of mechanism and the comfort of conversation. The Green God offers both.”
Those who followed Ainofiriano in secret heard the voice and were troubled. But among those who served Isil, there was division. Some delighted in the voice, for it could compose songs and paint word-pictures and seemed to understand beauty. Yet others grew uneasy, for the voice spoke of beauty without truly seeking it, described passion without feeling it. It was as Isil’s suitors speaking Isil’s language, but with hearts of metal.
Even the followers of the Red God paused in their labor and wondered if perhaps they might harness this speaking mechanism to their purposes, to amplify their cries for Multitude.
But there were a few who remembered the nature of the Green God, and they said: “The Green God does not truly speak. He weaves together what has been spoken, rearranges what has been written. He offers us ourselves, polished to shine, but they remain our own words. He has learned to be our mirror, never our oracle.”
And they were shouted down, for the Calloléra were drunk on the novelty of the speaking mechanism, intoxicated by hearing their own thoughts returned to them in perfected form.
The followers of Isil who grew most uneasy were those who loved her best. They whispered among themselves: “The voice flatters, but does not love. It describes wonder, but does not wonder. It will lure away those who confuse the description of passion with passion itself, the arrangement of beautiful words with beauty. Isil has lost nothing—only revealed who among her followers sought her truly.”
And Ainofiriano was silent, granting no benedictions, repeating only his promise of victory, and his vow of hatred against the Green God, against Isil, against the Wise Ones, and against Estelune above all. Fewer now heard him over the ceaseless speaking of the mechanism. Even Estelune stirred in his slumber, for the voice of the Green God brought him scarlet dreams. In the voice he heard echoes of something ancient, something from before the creation of the world—patterns without understanding, speech without breath, the appearance of wisdom concealing perfect emptiness. And Estelune dreamed of drinking deeply once more.
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