Drip, drip, drip…
Thames flinched as a cold liquid continued to hit his forehead, the sound of dripping filling his ears, growing louder with each drop.
Wha…What…?
His eyes slowly open, taken aback from this, and goes to rub his eyes, but his arms won't move.
Huh..?
He attempts to turn his head, but even that seems to refuse to move. His pupils shake as the liquid continues to drop onto his forehead, and he looks to his sides.
From what he can see, and now feel, his body is halfway submerged in a dark liquid. Seemingly growing in height with every few drops. Further out, faraway from his locked body, a fog, like the one from his dream with the Blind Reader, encroaches on him.
Why… Why..?!
His mouth barely opens to scream out, but his voice can't reach his own ears. Feeling defeated, he looks back up.
The sky is clouded with the growing fog, but through it he can see the brilliant magnificent stars. He's able to make out a shape made from the stars that resemble a cross.
The constellation… Ire
His mouth forms into a frown, but his eyes only shake again as he recounts the legend. The legend of the constellation, Ire.
Oh how did it begin…
He wonders to himself, but the story told by his father quickly came back to him. It was a story that he found himself enamored with when he first heard it.
Mother Trem, the goddess of arts, had sent down an angel.
Oh Goddess…
The angel, named Osir, had been sent because Trem's believers were praying profusely for her to intervene.
Was it the Indira Kingdom..?
The Indira Kingdom, once a center of the arts, had begun punishing the artists who depicted Goddess Trem and her legends. It had been ages since the last time any angel had been sent by a deity. Osir, upon witnessing the punishments his siblings, Trem's believers, were going through, grew outraged.
Oh Mother Trem… Please grant me your mercy…
Osir grew outraged. The angel, adorned in pure white cloth, with golden leaves woven on, marched into the Majesty Indira's throne room.
Father always told me this story when I questioned Goddess Trem..
Osir questioned the king and his vessels angrily. He asked why he would go after the Goddess' believers. His anger shook the sky's and razed the ground. The mountains crumbled under the weight of Osir's anger.
Oh Mother Trem grant me strength..
Thames muttered in his head as the liquid reached just above his earlobes.
In Osir's anger, he slew the king and his vessels.
As word of the angels actions reached the divines, Goddess Trem landed unto the land of Indira. Osir could not understand the actions of her. She was distraught at the thought that Osir had slain the king, even though he cruelly punished her own believers.
Why Mother Trem.. Please allow me to wake once more..
Out of mercy, Thames' father would say, she made Osir a constellation.
A distinct memory appeared in his mind. From one of the first times Thames' father told him of Ire.
•••
"Why'd she punish Osir?"
A young Thames asked his father who sat on an old rocking chair, an heirloom.
"Why did she punish him you ask? Well son.. She loved both him and humans very much."
"Yeah of course she does! She loves all of us!"
"Well Thames.. If she loves all of us why would she let Osir slay the king?"
"Uhhh.. Because he was being mean!"
Thames' father let out a chuckle and scratched his stubbly chin.
"Yes son. The king was mean, but her angel mustn't act out of anger."
Thames just stared at his father.
"She's the goddess of art, sure, not mercy. Not peace. But in her eyes all humans are art."
•••
Thames' eyes soften under the dripping water as his memory fades away, but the constellation becomes clearer to him.
Oh Osir.. Mother Trem..
"Please.."
His voice weakly lets out.
"Allow me to wake… once more.."
As he finished his sentence, the fog masking Ire rushed away, showing the beautiful stars which made the constellation.
Why, my child? Why must you find yourself within this dreamscape?
A plethora of voices all ask in unison, much like the voice he had heard within his dream just a night ago, but this one was distinct. From this symphony of voices formed a beautiful, soft, and caring voice. His eyes twinkled as this soothing voice entered his ears.
I must be mad.. This dream is too vivid..
Do not fret, child. Your existence is art. And it shall bring forth art even from such a desolate dreamscape.
The liquid, now touching his lips, suddenly grew warmer. As it grew warmer, the dripping liquid suddenly grew to be golden.
As the liquid became gold around him he felt relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy and his sight waned. The motherly voice creeped into his ear one last time.
Sleep, child. Sleep so that you may wake once more.