When Massassi dies, something of reality dies with her. The pressure that has borne down for so long, from another reality, pushes harder. Old wounds on the sun’s surface reopen, the cracks widening, tearing and splitting it apart.
But Massassi’s death is not total, for much of her essence remains, housed in the hearts of her seven creations, in their swords and, in lesser quantities, in the weapons of the knights and the soldiers, in the essence-powered machines of her Empire, and in the thousands of little coins she has made.
A single human, scattered piecemeal, then wrapped in silver and platinum.
And, like a solar mirror, the sun’s death is not total either. It is broken, diminished, the whole returned to the value of its parts, but not gone.
For days, fire fills the sky, a series of distant explosions that spell death for millions of those that watch, helpless, earthbound. The nights become strange, flickering things, with pale strobing flashes hinting at the astral violence viewed on the other side of the world. True darkness is swiftly forgotten.
While people run and hide and mostly die, The Seven watch, unmoving, grief-shocked.
Days and nights pass. The death toll, crop failures, mass blindness and scrabble for resources seeming discreet beneath the apocalyptic reverberations above.
Meanwhile, The Seven watch.
There is general agreement that the world is going to end but, despite a number of convincing arguments and passionate doomsayers, the sun does not fall from the heavens.
When the skies finally clear two suns are revealed where one was before. Lesser, weaker; one red, the other gold, orbiting each other in small lazy circles.
Though diminished from their former state, the suns endure, allowing life of a sort, and the Empire, to continue.
The Seven gather at the place where Massassi died. Peace-Fifteen is waiting for them. She asks a simple question. ‘What do we do?’
For a while, The Seven do not answer. Massassi has created them to withstand the ravages of time, to be leaders, champions, symbols of power and permanence. She has tried to prepare them for every problem she could think of through a combination of intelligent design, of balancing one against the other, and teaching them, sharing her knowledge and skill.
The one thing that she did not consider, did not prepare them for, was her death. The Seven’s love for their creator is paramount, a glowing wondrous thing that unites them and gives them strength.
Gone.
In its place is grief. Massassi, their maker, their teacher, their beloved, is dead. Something of themselves is dead too, gone forever, and they know that things will never be the same.
This is problematic. They have been taught that their role is to guide humanity, to preserve the glory of the Empire and to prepare them for the coming threat. But such a task is impossible, pointless.
For their creator is gone, her perfection cruelly taken from them, the Empire of the Winged Eye has been reduced to a shadow of what it was. They cannot bring Massassi back any more than they can restore the sun.
Peace-Fifteen knows better than to rush The Seven, so she waits, the question hanging between them.
What should they do? What can they do? The Seven are not of one mind.
Alpha cannot bear how far the world has fallen, to even look upon it brings him pain. He cannot understand how his creator could abandon them to this existence, or why she did not warn him.
Beta tries to consider the long-term problems but each solution turns quickly to another issue in his mind, and another, and yet another, a succession of disappointments leading to failure and death.
Gamma’s grief is tinged with anger, at Massassi, at her brothers and sisters. They all disappoint. She feels helpless, bitter. Though she does not love her creator as the others do, her tears fall just as freely.
No thoughts run through Delta’s mind in the first years. She is carried in stronger currents of emotion than any of her siblings. They do not know what to do with her, torn between admiration of the depth of her love, envy of it and, in Gamma’s case, frustration.
Epsilon, Theta and Eta weep too. The thing they have waited for has come to pass and yet life continues. They are broken by it, saddened by it and also dissatisfied. Perhaps, the three think to themselves, this is only the beginning. And yet it feels so much like the end, they cannot fully believe it.
But something has to be done. The wishes of the creator must be respected and her body must be honoured.
The Seven set to work on the construction of a suitable tomb. A giant cube of metal, balanced on one corner and raised seventy feet into the air. Inside, the walls are covered in tapestries, detailing the life and works of Massassi. Every achievement made glorious through the filter of The Seven’s loving eyes, shining bright, eclipsing any ugliness.
It is the only thing The Seven create themselves.
So pleased are they with their work, that they decide to make a home there, a sanctum where they can be alone with their grief.
Massassi’s remains are stored within the cube, and an order is created to maintain it. Acolytes that live and die within the walls, unsullied by the outside world.
Hidden away in their chamber, The Seven find a measure of sanctuary. They share memories of a better time, singing of their creator and their love for her, unpicking every detail of the years blessed by her living presence.
Usually these reminiscences result in tears of liquid stone that harden in the air, forming a shell of sorts over silver bodies. A set of living tombs within a tomb.
Only the brave or the foolish interrupt them.
Peace-Fifteen is not sure which she is when she presents herself. She knows that her very presence disturbs them and yet she comes anyway. The Empire of the Winged Eye is falling apart and something must be done. The Seven must take action.
In gentle, humble language, Peace-Fifteen makes this clear. Her life has been spent dealing with an extremely difficult and dangerous old woman, and it surprises her how transferable her skills are to the immortals.
And so they take action.
Peace-Fifteen is elevated by them, turned into a bridge between the grieving Seven and humanity. Hair is stripped from her, removed at cellular level. Nails too, are taken, leaving her smooth skinned, unblemished just as Massassi was. She is cloaked in feathers and renamed Obeisance.
The role is an odd one, nursemaid, messenger and icon rolled into one. Obeisance takes to it quickly, and soon, Seraph Knights set out, bringing order to the world once more.
And slowly, the Empire recovers. Its people are not what they were. The old pride has gone from the outer colonies, replaced with deep fear and superstition. The vast armies have been reduced to a fraction of their former size, and many of the satellites that orbit the world are now empty shells. Even the watch on the Breach itself is reduced, an outpost standing where legions were before.
A status quo of decay establishes itself, the Empire’s decline incredibly slow, barely noticeable from one generation to the next, but there, worsening by fractions of degrees.
Obeisance is not allowed to die, the role taken over by one of the daughters of Peace-Fifteen, and then one of her granddaughters, and onwards. Each is trained by her predecessor, shaped to appear and act the same, a thread of continuity for The Seven to cling to.
While Alpha, Beta and Delta bury themselves in nostalgia, and Epsilon, Theta and Eta content themselves to wait, Gamma fumes, restless. Of all of them, she loves Massassi the least, is the most removed from her siblings.
And so, when Obeisance comes, it is often she who an-swers.
And when, a thousand years later, the Breach finally opens, it is she that rides out to meet the demons, alone.
And it is she alone that pays the price.