***
It is as though I’m flying. Not soaring lazily like some raptor. No. This is a painful process. My body is pulled and yanked by competing forces. My limbs detach then return seconds later. I try to look at myself but the perspective is shirked and disarrayed. Angles and proportions are jumbled. I fall through a hideous vortex. Stars go bursting before my eyes. I sense entire worlds and galaxies passing me by.

My limbs return and I find myself lying in the middle of a ravine. I lift my head groggily.

In the distance, I see a temple. For I am sure this is a temple. The architecture is uniquely beautiful yet oddly familiar. Behind monolithic walls, atop a gigantic platform, a myriad of towers soars into the clouds. Around their bases, tumbling piles of bleached bones bask in the hot sun. In the centre of the complex, a great citadel, the tallest of the towers, dominates my vision.

I feel a low reverberation in the air.

"Ėν τούτῳ νίκα."

Without thinking I begin to walk toward the citadel. I step onto a bridge. By each of my sides, richly painted statues decorate the balustrades. So lifelike are they that I reach out and touch one. My fingers register a coarse sensation. These are not idols made from stone. No, these are bodies. Dried and mummified husks, hunched over in prayer and clutching their three pairs of hands together. One after another, they prostrate themselves towards the tower.

On and on I walk. Along the bridge, through courtyards and up innumerable stairs. The promise ringing in my ears every few steps.

"Ėν τούτῳ νίκα."

I have been sent here for a reason. Something is waiting for me.

I ascend to the highest room of the citadel. A collection of stained-glass windows shower the chamber in a reddish light. Here, more mummified worshippers are bent over in deference, clad in luscious robes, crowns, bracelets, rings, collars and precious jewels.

Six pillars mount a giant tapestry in the middle of the room. I stare at its surface and reflect on the design that has been captured on its worn cloth. Perhaps it is some sort of god, a pagan idol. Despite my ignorance, I am fascinated. With a mixture of dread and desire, I marvel at the objects held in each of its many hands and arms. The vaguely human figure stands proudly atop a conquered fish-like being and I feel a distinct anguish, as though reminded of something lost and forgotten. The form and the impression are that of a malevolent passion. A cruel purity.

"Ėν τούτῳ νίκα."

The chant breaks through my reverie and my eyes drift to one of the objects in the grasp of the god: a dagger. Long, twisted and cruel, of exotic design and ancient birth, like the cord, I know that this thing belongs to me. This gift has been awaiting my arrival, lying hidden in the tomb of this dead world.

"Ėν τούτῳ νίκα."

And so, I obey and pry the dagger from the icon’s palm.

***