I have tasked Mossa with the IMPOSSIBLE.
“Why does he whimper, Lord?” the assistant asked.
The figure was huddled, round, nearly formless in its spot of the floor. At times, its eyes rose, seeking, frantic, but its head lowered again, making no more sound than a breath. It shivered, or shuddered.. or shook? The assistant couldn’t really tell.
“Ah, is that how he appears to you, dear one?” The voice was deep. Loud, but gentle. Knowing, but thoughtful. “He is thus, I suppose, but not for long.” The counselor’s large fingers played on a glass orb upon his desk, striking a new powdery flash of colorful light with each tap-tap.
“You see, he is directionless. He is without aim, for his fire is just yet kindled, long in the making. He does not whimper. Listen closely, dear one. He sings. Faint though it is, it is fair. He sings, and yet he is afraid.” The counselor paused, as the question alit on the assistant’s face. The room was quiet, and the light danced like water on his chin. “You see, dear one, I have tasked Mossa with the impossible.”
The word echoed in the hall, and the assistant thought he heard the faintest whisper of it in what he now knew to be the creature’s song:
Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.
No more was said for a time. In the dark hall, things were curiously alight, reflecting fragments of color from the orb. Great, thick tabards adorned the walls, each a singular symbol, unique and simple, that told of long histories. He knew some, but many he did not. The red and gold, a display so familiar, the lion’s tail wielding flame. The purple altar of lamp and shadow. The green waning moon. But one hung most prominently, behind the counselor’s head, and his mane cast a cascading shadow over its body, revealing little but the edges in a colorful corona of gently undulating light. This was the tapestry yet unwoven, and Molef the assistant glimpsed only a piece of the filigree,
“We persist in hope until –“
“What does the rest of it say?” he wondered.
As if in response, the counselor said, “We will not know until it is finished. Until Moss accomplishes his task… or does not.” He smiled pitifully at the sad shape, a deep, genuine pity whose taproot is in a wellspring of peace. Then, slowly, effortlessly, he returned his gaze to the large book in front of him.
Molef took this as his cue to bow deeply and exit.