Hands Of Heaven 4 Feet Of Hell

I'm getting closer. My "father,," my core- the Hands. I feel them.

In order to deceive Heaven, I had to deceive myself. Yet as a result, I was confused- I'm losing time.

These Feet-

I gaze at my legs, a slow transition from brown skin to black abyss- this substance is in the shape of some form of sabatons on my feet.

It is cold. I can feel the eyes above. They plan to erase me in my entirety, the instant in which I commune with my other self.

This icy land- I had seen it before. I see now what my other eyes had seen. Both of us were befuddled by our false memories- memories of our own creation. Truth and falsehood in tandem to disguise our purpose- the process of instating a new world order, as G.o.d.

I am Justice. WE are Justice. Humanity called us Fiends- they merely feared the power we held. They called us heretics. Heaven struck us down- not in indignant rage, but in apprehension. I was so close- so close...

But now, I am closer than ever.

***

Years ago, a man sought to transcend humanity, and take his place among king of all.

In antic.i.p.ation of Heaven's eye, a heinous plan was conceived-

Before destruction was wrought on him and his people, he would attract Heaven's rage onto the country he resided in, full of his friends and family-

And in a calculated manner, split himself in two.

Two souls made from one.

Two souls... with their respective wills.

A "father,"

And a "son."

Placed in a simulacrum of a comforting village, constructed from the memories of a madman attempting to become G.o.d, the supreme Usurper, they were safe.

The only way to evade the punishment of the unintelligent, impartial, but all-powerful Heaven was to deceive even oneself completely.

In them, the relics constructed through countless sacrifices would be entwined in their very existence, provided they were "awakened"-

The father coerced by a slumbering will, urged to seek a relic in an effort to reclaim the lost power they recall in their memories, as their son seeks them after their disappearance, wanting to reclaim the pillar of their "childhood,"-

Both seeking after memories that were nothing more than implanted.

While a slumbering will remained in both, subconsciously guiding their actions.

The father guided to the primer of the Hands of Heaven, a tome which told the truth and nothing but the truth.

The son guided to the ruins of a city a.s.sociated with past failings, that would reawaken past memories, and imitate them.

As "different people," they would not be immediately struck down by Heaven.

An ingenious plan- from the perspective of an arrogant madman, that is.

***

In this small wooden shack that reminded me of days long past, a desiccated corpse clad in an unadorned set of clothing, with a rob around their shoulders, sat cross legged cradling a book. On his hands were pristine white gloves.

The tome was empty. Now it was, at least. It was a tool, nothing more. Just like b.a.s.t.a.r.dized conscious that rested within the body that held it.

Anno held out his wrinkled hands belonging to his rapidly aging body, and waited.

From the dried corpse's mouth, a wisp of something like smoke drew itself over Anno's hands, and wove itself like the finest threads-

And his hands were soon clad in what he sought.

The Hands of Heaven.

A faint smile surfaces on his sunken and wrinkled face- one with the hints of madness.

"I feel it... these previous parts of me seek to rebel. How futile- but indeed amusing."

The son and father pair- after rejoining with their original self, they were enlightened on the falsehood behind their very existence. Yet even still, they fought back.

This wasn't merely the influence of their false and implanted memories- it was the influence of the rationality they possess, that their main body lacked by this point. They understood the gravity of their "self's" actions. And they sought to stop him.

Heroic, but doomed to failure.

With the slightest thought, the rampaging duo of fractured souls were quelled, and absorbed anew into the most "complete" of them.

Anno, now complete, took in a deep breath- and exhaled an even deeper breath of turbid air, mixed with impurities of the soul.

Anno, at his peak, was unmatched. Truly someone with the platform to become a G.o.d.

Though he was weaker now, he was more knowledgeable than he was before his first defeat. Now, seventy years later, he will take his place among the stars.

Glancing down at his clothing that became ragged as a result of his long trek, he snapped his fingers; in an instant, a long, luxurious, crimson robe, complete with resplendent gold underclothes, fit his body.

Clothes he wore as he was struck down by Heaven the first time.

The blizzard outside intensified. He withstood the strength of nature on his way here- now, he couldn't even feel it. Such was the strength of a Master.

The world was his to manipulate- within reason. There were always things he couldn't hope to touch. Gravity, the immensity of nature and the process of its seasons, Natural reproduction; and the soul. Yet even before his ascension, he has already tampered with one of these. What was this if not evidence of his supreme power? Possessed of an insurmountable intelligence, and an incredibly well put together plan, what is this if not a guarantee that he deserves to be at the top? In comparison, is not every other being a maggot, feasting on the generous leavings he gives to them? What difference does this have from truly becoming a G.o.d?

Even now, he feels the Hands and Feet, representations of his invincible power under Heaven, meld to forge the relic they were truly meant to be.

From outside the shack, the blizzard seems to intensify even more. A rumble of thunder, the loudest ever heard, echoes across the world. The mortal maggots cry out in wonder and apprehension.

Anno walks out of the shack, and glances upwards. He thinks only thing-

"The stars above will make a fine stage for my ascension."

He shoots upward in a beam of light, ready to begin the final chapter of his epic.